COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

BY  EUGENE  MANLOVE  RHODES 


Copper  Streak  Trail 


•BY 
EUGENE  MANLOVE  RHODES 

AUTHOR  OF  "  STEPSONS  OF  LIGHT,"   "  GOOD  MEN  AND  TRUE  " 
"  WEST  IS  WEST,"  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

iltocrsiDe  prerftf  Cambribge 


COPYRIGHT,  IQI7,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  IQ22,  BY   EUGENE  MANLOVE  RHODES 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED  INCLUDING  THE  RIGHT  TO  REPRODUCE 
THIS  BOOK  OR  PARTS  THEREOF  IN  ANY  FORM 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


TO 

THE  READER  OF  THIS  BOOK 

FROM  ONE  WHO  SAW  LIFE  UNSTEADILY 

AND  IN  PART 


M20392 


Copper  Streak  Trail 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  stage  line  swung  aside  in  a  huge  half- 
circle,  rounding  the  northern  end  of  the 
Comobabi  Range  and  swinging  far  out  to  skirt 
the  foothills.  Mr.  Peter  Johnson  had  never 
been  to  Silverbell:  his  own  country  lay  far  to 
the  north,  beyond  the  Gila.  But  he  knew  that 
Silverbell  was  somewhere  east  of  the  Comobabi, 
not  north;  and  confidently  struck  out  to  find 
a  short  cut  through  the  hills.  From  Silverbell 
a  spur  of  railroad  ran  down  to  Redrock.  Mr. 
Johnson's  thought  was  to  entrain  himself  for 
Tucson. 

The  Midnight  horse  reached  along  in  a  brisk, 
swinging  walk,  an  optimistic  walk,  good  for 
four  miles  an  hour.  He  had  held  that  gait  since 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  an  hour  off 


4  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

for  water  and  breakfast  at  Smith's  Wells,  the 
first  stage  station  out  from  Cobre;  it  was  now 
hot  noon  by  a  conscientious  sun  —  thirty-six 
miles.  But  Midnight  did  not  care.  For  hours 
their  way  had  been  through  a  trackless  plain 
of  uncropped  salt  grass,  or  grama,  on  the  rising 
slopes:  now  they  were  in  a  country  of  worn 
and  freshly  traveled  trails:  wise  Midnight 
knew  there  would  be  water  and  nooning  soon. 
Already  they  had  seen  little  bands  of  horses 
peering  down  at  them  from  the  high  knolls  on 
their  right. 

Midnight  wondered  if  they  were  to  find 
sweet  water  or  alkali.  Sweet,  likely,  since  it 
was  in  the  hills;  Midnight  was  sure  he  hoped  so. 
The  best  of  these  wells  in  the  plains  were  salt 
and  brackish.  Privately,  Midnight  preferred 
the  Forest  Reserve.  It  was  a  pleasant,  soft 
life  in  these  pinewood  pastures.  Even  if  it  was 
pretty  dull  for  a  good  cow-horse  after  the  Free 
Range,  it  was  easier  on  old  bones.  And  though 
Midnight  was  not  insensible  to  the  compli- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  5 

ment  Pete  had  paid  him  by  picking  him  from 
the  bunch  for  these  long  excursions  to  the 
Southland  deserts,  he  missed  the  bunch. 

They  had  been  together  a  long  time,  the 
bunch;  Pete  had  brought  them  from  the  Block 
Ranch,  over  in  New  Mexico.  They  were  get 
ting  on  in  years,  and  so  was  Pete.  Midnight 
mused  over  his  youthful  days  —  the  dust,  the 
flashing  horns,  the  shouting  and  the  excite 
ment  of  old  round-ups. 

It  is  a  true  telling  that  thoughts  in  no  way 
unlike  these  buzzed  in  the  rider's  head  as  a 
usual  thing.  But  to-day  he  had  other  things 
to  think  of. 

With  Kid  Mitchell,  his  partner,  Pete  had 
lately  stumbled  upon  a  secret  of  fortune  —  a 
copper  hill;  a  warty,  snubby  little  gray  hill  in 
an  insignificant  cluster  of  little  gray  hills.  But 
this  one,  and  this  one  only,  precariously 
crusted  over  with  a  thin  layer  of  earth  and 
windblown  sand,  was  copper,  upthrust  by 
central  fires;  rich  ore,  crumbling,  soft;  a  hill  to 


6  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

be  loaded,  every  yard  of  it,  into  cars  yet  un 
built,  on  a  railroad  yet  undreamed-of,  save  by 
these  two  lucky  adventurers. 

They  had  blundered  upon  their  rich  find  by 
pure  chance.  For  in  the  southwest,  close  upon 
the  Mexican  border,  in  the  most  lonesome  cor 
ner  of  the  most  lonesome  county  of  thinly 
settled  Arizona,  turning  back  from  a  long  and 
fruitless  prospecting  trip,  they  had  paused  for 
one  last,  half-hearted  venture.  One  idle  stroke 
of  the  pick  in  a  windworn  bare  patch  had 
turned  up  —  this! 

So  Pete  Johnson's  thoughts  were  of  millions; 
not  without  a  queer  feeling  that  he  would  n't 
have  the  least  idea  what  to  do  with  them,  and 
that  he  was  parting  with  something  in  his  past, 
priceless,  vaguely  indefinable:  a  sharing  and 
acceptance  of  the  common  lot,  a  brotherhood 
with  the  not  fortunate. 

Riding  to  the  northwest,  Pete's  broad  gray 
sombrero  was  tilted  aside  to  shelter  from  the 
noonday  sun  a  russet  face,  crinkled  rather  than 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  7 

wrinkled,  and  dusty.  His  hair,  thinning  at  the 
temples,  vigorous  at  the  ears,  was  crisply 
white.  A  short  and  lately  trimmed  mustache 
held  a  smile  in  ambush ;  above  it  towered  such 
a  nose  as  Wellington  loved. 

It  was  broad  at  the  base;  deep  creases  ran 
from  the  corners  of  it,  flanking  the  white  mus 
tache,  to  a  mouth  strong,  full-lipped  and  un 
deniably  large,  ready  alike  for  laughter  or  for 
sternness. 

The  nose  —  to  follow  the  creases  back  again 

—  was  fleshy  and  beaked  at  the  tip;  it  nar 
rowed  at  the  level  bridge  and  broadened  again 
where  it  joined  the  forehead,  setting  the  eyes 
well  apart.    The  eyes  themselves  were  blue, 
just  a  little  faded  —  for  the  man  was  sixty- two 

—  and  there  were  wind-puckers  at  the  corners 
of  them.    But  they  were  keen  eyes,  steady, 
sparkling  and  merry  eyes,  for  all  that;  they 
were  deep-set  and  long,  and  they  sloped  a  trifle, 
high  on  the  inside  corners;  pent  in  by  pepper- 
and-salt  brows,  bushy,  tufted  and  thick,  ro- 


8  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

guishly  aslant  from  the  outer  corners  up  to 
where  they  all  but  met  above  the  Wellingtonian 
nose.  A  merry  face,  a  forceful  face :  Pete  was  a 
little  man,  five  feet  seven,  and  rather  slender 
than  otherwise;  but  no  one,  in  view  of  that 
face,  ever  thought  of  him  as  a  small  man  or 
an  old  one. 

The  faint  path  merged  with  another  and 
another,  the  angles  of  convergence  giving  the 
direction  of  the  unknown  water  hole;  they 
came  at  last  to  the  main  trail,  a  trunk  line 
swollen  by  feeders  from  every  ridge  and  ar- 
royo.  It  bore  away  to  the  northeast,  swerving, 
curving  to  pitch  and  climb  in  faultless  follow 
ing  of  the  rule  of  roads  —  the  greatest  prog 
ress  with  the  least  exertion.  Your  cow  is  your 
best  surveyor. 

They  came  on  the  ranch  suddenly,  rounding 
a  point  into  a  small  natural  amphitheater.  A 
flat-roofed  dugout,  fronted  with  stone,  was 
built  into  the  base  of  a  boulder-piled  hill;  the 
door  was  open.  Midnight  perked  his  black 
head  jauntily  and  slanted  an  ear. 


'  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  9 

High  overhead,  a  thicket  of  hackberry  and 
arrow-weed  overhung  the  little  valley.  From 
this  green  tangle  a  pipe  line  on  stilts  broke  away 
and  straddled  down  a  headlong  hill.  Frost  was 
unknown;  the  pipe  was  supported  by  forked 
posts  of  height  assorted  to  need,  an  expedi 
ent  easier  than  ditching  that  iron  hillside.  The 
water  discharged  into  a  fenced  and  foursquare 
earthen  reservoir;  below  it  was  a  small  corral  of 
cedar  stakes;  through  the  open  gate,  as  he  rode 
by,  Pete  saw  a  long  watering-trough  with  a 
float  valve.  Before  the  dugout  stood  a  patri 
archal  juniper,  in  the  shade  of  which  two 
saddled  horses  stood  droop-hipped,  comfort 
ably  asleep,  Waking,  as  Pete  drew  near,  they 
adjusted  their  disarray  in  some  confusion  and 
eyed  the  newcomers  with  bright-eyed  inquiry. 
Midnight,  tripping  by,  hailed  them  with  a 
civil  little  whinny. 

A  tall,  heavy  man  upreared  himself  from  the 
shade.  His  example  was  followed  by  another 
man,  short  and  heavy.  Blankets  were  spread 
on  a  tarpaulin  beyond  them. 


io  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Light,  stranger/'  said  the  tall  man  heart 
ily.  "Unsaddle  and  eat  a  small  snack.  We 
was  just  taking  a  little  noonday  nap  for  our 
selves.'1 

"  Beans,  jerky  gravy,  and  bread,"  announced 
the  short  man,  waiter  fashion.  "  I  '11  hot  up  the 
coffee." 

With  the  word  he  fed  little  sticks  and 
splinters  to  a  tiny  fire,  now  almost  burned  out, 
near  the  circumference  of  that  shaded  circle. 

"Yes,  to  all  that;  thank  you,"  said  Pete, 
slipping  off. 

He  loosened  the  cinches;  so  doing  he  caught 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye  telegraphed  tidings, 
as  his  two  hosts  rolled  to  each  other  a  single 
meaningful  glance,  swift,  furtive,  and  white- 
eyed.  Observing  which,  every  faculty  of  Pete 
Johnson's  mind  tensed,  fiercely  alert,  braced  to 
attention* 

"Now  what?  Some  more  of  the  same. 
Lights  out!  Protect  yourself!"  he  thought, 
taking  off  the  saddle.  Aloud  he  said: 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  1 1 

"One  of  Zurich's  ranches,  is  n't  it?  I  saw 
Z  K  burned  on  the  gateposts." 

He  passed  his  hand  along  Midnight's  sweaty 
back  for  possible  bruise  or  scald;  he  unfolded 
the  Navajo  saddle  blanket  and  spread  it  over 
the  saddle  to  dry.  He  took  the  sudaderos  — 
the  jute  sweat  cloths  under  the  Navajo  —  and 
draped  them  over  a  huge  near-by  boulder  in 
the  sun,  carefully  smoothing  them  out  to  pre 
vent  wrinkles;  to  all  appearance  without  any 
other  care  on  earth. 

"Yes;  horse  camp,"  said  the  tall  man. 
"Now  you  water  the  black  horse  and  I'll  dig 
up  a  bait  of  corn  for  him.  Wash  up  at  the 
trough." 

"Puesto  que  si!11  said  Pete. 

He  slipped  the  bit  out  of  Midnight's  mouth, 
pushing  the  headstall  back  on  the  sleek  black 
neck  by  way  of  lead  rope,  and  they  strode  away 
to  the  water  pen,  side  by  side. 

When  they  came  back  a  nose-bag,  full  of 
corn,  stood  ready  near  the  fire.  Pete  hung 


12  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

this  on  Midnight's  head.  Midnight  munched 
contentedly,  with  half-closed  eyes,  and  Pete 
turned  to  the  fire. 

"Was  I  kidding  myself ?"  he  inquired.  "Or 
did  somebody  mention  the  name  of  grub?" 

"Set  up!"  grinned  the  tall  man,  kicking  a 
small  box  up  beside  a  slightly  larger  one,  which 
served  as  a  table.  "Nothing  much  to  eat  but 
food.  Canned  truck  all  gone." 

The  smaller  host  poured  coffee.  Pete  con 
sidered  the  boxes. 

"You  didn't  pack  these  over  here?"  he 
asked,  prodding  the  table  with  his  boot- toe  to 
elucidate  his  meaning.  "And  yet  I  did  n't  see 
no  wheel  marks  as  I  come  along." 

"Fetch  'em  from  Silverbell.  We  got  a  sort 
of  wagon  track  through  the  hills.  Closer  than 
Cobre.  Some  wagon  road  in  the  rough  places! 
Snakes  thick  on  the  east  side;  but  they  don't 
never  get  over  here.  Break  their  backs  comin' 
through  the  gap.  Yes,  sir!" 

"Then  I'll  just  June  along  in  the  cool  of  the 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  13 

eveninY'  observed  Pete,  ladling  out  a  second 
helping  of  jerked  venison.  "I  can  follow  your 
wagon  tracks  into  town.  I  ain't  never  been  to 
Silverbell.  Was  afraid  I  might  miss  it  in  the 
dark.  How  far  is  it?  About  twenty  mile,  I 
reckon?" 

"Just  about.  Shucks!  I  was  in  hopes  you'd 
stay  overnight  with  us.  Bill  and  me,  we  ain't 
seen  no  one  since  Columbus  crossed  the  Del 
aware  in  fourteen-ninety-two.  Can't  ye,  now?  " 
urged  the  tall  man  coaxingly.  "We'll  pitch 
horseshoes  —  play  cards  if  you  want  to;  only 
Bill  and  me's  pretty  well  burnt  out  at  cards. 
Fox  and  geese  too  —  ever  play  fox  and  geese? 
We  got  a  dandy  fox-and-goose  board  —  but 
Bill,  he  natcherly  can't  play.  He's  from  Cali 
fornia,  Bill  is." 

"Aw,  shut  up  on  that!"  growled  Bill. 

"Sorry,"  said  Pete,  "I'm  pushed.  Got  to 
go  on  to-night.  Want  to  take  that  train  at 
seven-thirty  in  the  morning,  and  a  small  sleep 
for  myself  before  that.  Maybe  I  '11  stop  over 


14  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

as  I  come  back,  though.    Fine  feed  you  got 
here.   Makes  a  jim-darter  of  a  horse  camp." 

"Yes,  'tis.  We  aim  to  keep  the  cattle  shoved 
off  so  we  can  save  the  grass  for  the  saddle 
ponies." 

"Must  have  quite  a  bunch?" 
*  'Bout  two  hundred.  Well,  sorry  you  can't 
stay  with  us.  We  was  fixin'  to  round  up  what 
cows  had  drifted  in  and  give  'em  a  push  back 
to  the  main  range  this  afternoon.  But  they'll 
keep.  We'll  stick  round  camp;  and  you  stay 
as  late  as  you  can,  stranger,  and  we'll  stir  up 
something.  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Bill  —  we'll  pull 
off  that  shootin'  match  you  was  blowin' 
about."  The  tall  man  favored  Johnson  with  a 
confidential  wink.  "  Bill,  he  allows  he  can  shoot 
right  peart.  Bill 's  from  California." 

Bill,  the  short  man,  produced  a  gray-and- 
yellow  tobacco  sack  and  extracted  a  greasy 
ten-dollar  greenback,  which  he  placed  on  the 
box  table  at  Johnson's  elbow. 

"Cover  that,  durn  you!   You  hold  stakes- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  15 

stranger.  I'll  show  him  California.  Humph! 
Dam'  wall-eyed  Tejano!" 

"I'm  a  Texan  myself,"  twinkled  Johnson. 

"What  if  you  are?  You  ain't  wall-eyed,  be 
you?  And  you  ain't  been  makin'  no  cracks  at 
California  —  not  to  me.  But  this  here  Jim  — 
look  at  the  white-eyed,  tow-headed  grinnin' 
scoundrel,  will  you?  —  Say,  are  you  goin'  to 
cover  that  X  or  are  you  goin'  to  crawfish?" 

"Back  down?  You  peevish  little  sawed-off 
runt!"  yelped  Jim.  "I  been  lettin'  you  shoot 
off  your  head  so's  you'll  be  good  and  sore 
afterward.  I  always  wanted  a  piece  of  paper 
money  any  way  —  for  a  keepsake.  You  wait ! " 

He  went  into  the  cabin  and  returned  with 
a  tarnished  gold  piece  and  a  box  of  forty-five 
cartridges. 

"Here,  stakeholder!"  he  said  to  Johnson. 
Then,  to  Bill:  "Now,  then,  old  Californy  — 
you  been  all  swelled-up  and  stumping  me  for 
quite  some  time.  Show  us  what  you  got!" 

It  was  an  uncanny  exhibition  of  skill  that 


16  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

followed.  These  men  knew  how  to  handle  a 
sixshooter.  They  began  with  tin  cans  at  ten 
yards,  thirty,  fifty  —  and  hit  them.  They  shot 
at  rolling  cans,  and  hit  them;  at  high-thrown 
cans,  and  hit  them;  at  cards  nailed  to  hitching- 
posts;  then  at  the  pips  of  cards.  Neither  man 
could  boast  of  any  advantage.  The  few  and 
hairbreadth  misses  of  the  card  pips,  the  few 
blanks  at  the  longer  ranges,  fairly  offset  each 
other.  The  California  man  took  a  slightly 
crouching  attitude,  his  knees  a  little  bent;  held 
his  gun  at  his  knee;  raising  an  extended  and 
rigid  arm  to  fire.  The  Texan  stood  erect,  almost 
on  tiptoe,  bareheaded ;  he  swung  his  gun  ear-high 
above  his  shoulder,  looking  at  his  mark  alone, 
and  fired  as  the  gun  flashed  down.  The  little 
California  man  made  the  cleaner  score  at  the 
very  long  shots  and  in  clipping  the  pips  of  the 
playing  cards;  the  Texan  had  a  shade  the 
better  at  the  flying  targets,  his  bullets  ranging 
full-center  where  the  other  barely  grazed  the 
cans. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  17 

"  I  don't  see  but  what  I  '11  have  to  keep  this 
money.  You  Ve  shot  away  all  the  cartridges  in 
your  belts  and  most  of  the  box,  and  it  has  n't 
got  you  anywheres,"  observed  Pete  Johnson 
pensively.  "  Better  let  your  guns  cool  off.  You 
boys  can't  beat  each  other  shooting.  You  do 
right  well,  too,  both  of  you.  If  you'd  only 
started  at  it  when  you  was  young,  I  reckon 
you'd  both  have  been  what  you  might  call 
plumb  good  shots  now." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly  and  suppressed  a 
sigh. 

"Wait!"  advised  the  Texan,  and  turned  to 
confront  his  partner.  "You  make  out  quite 
tol'lable  with  a  gun,  Billiam,"  he  conceded. 
"I  got  to  hand  it  to  you.  I  judged  you  was 
just  runnin'  a  windy.  But  have  you  now 
showed  all  your  little  box  of  tricks?" 

"Well,  I  have  n't  missed  anything  —  not  to 
speak  of  —  no  more  than  you  did,"  evaded 
Bill,  plainly  apprehensive.  "What  more  do 
you  want?" 


1 8  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Jim  chuckled. 

"Pausin'  lightly  to  observe  that  it  ought  to 
be  easy  enough  to  best  you,  if  we  was  on  horse 
back  —  just  because  you  peek  at  your  sights 
when  you  shoot  —  I  shall  now  show  you  some 
thing." 

A  chuck  box  was  propped  against  the  juniper 
trunk.  From  this  the  Texan  produced  a  horse 
shoe  hammer  and  the  lids  from  two  ten-pound 
lard  pails.  He  strode  over  to  where,  ten  yards 
away,  two  young  cedars  grew  side  by  side,  and 
nailed  a  lid  to  each  tree,  shoulder-high. 

" There !"  he  challenged  his  opponent.  "We 
ain't  either  of  us  going  to  miss  such  a  mark  as 
that  —  it 's  like  putting  your  finger  on  it.  But 
suppose  the  tree  was  shooting  back?  Time  is 
what  counts  then.  Now,  how  does  this  strike 
you?  You  take  the  lid  on  the  left  and  I  '11  take 
the  other.  When  the  umpire  says  Go!  we'll 
begin  foggin'  —  and  the  man  that  scores  six 
hits  quickest  gets  the  money.  That's  fair, 
is  n't  it,  Johnson?" 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  19 

This  was  a  slip  —  Johnson  had  not  given  his 
name  —  a  slip  unnoticed  by  either  of  the  Z  K 
men,  but  not  by  Johnson. 

"Fair  enough,  I  should  say,"  he  answered. 

"Why,  Jim,  that  ain't  practical  —  that 
ain't!"  protested  Bill  uneasily.  "You  was 
talking  about  the  tree  a-shootin'  back  —  but 
one  shot  will  stop  most  men,  let  alone  six. 
What's  the  good  of  shoo  tin'  a  man  all  to 
pieces?" 

"Suppose  there  was  six  men?" 

"Then  they  get  me,  anyway.  Would  n't 
they,  Mr.  Umpire?"  he  appealed  to  Peter 
Johnson,  who  sat  cross-legged  and  fanned  him 
self  with  his  big  sombrero. 

"That  don't  make  any  difference,"  decided 
the  umpire  promptly.  "To  shoot  straight 
and  quickest — that'sbein'  a  good  shot.  Line 
up!" 

Bill  lined  up,  unwillingly  enough;  they 
stuffed  their  cylinders  with  cartridges. 

"Don't  shoot  till  I  say:  One,  two,  three  — 


20  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

go !"  admonished  Pete.  "  All  set?  One  — two 
—  three  —  go !" 

A  blending,  crackling  roar,  streaked  red 
and  saffron,  through  black  smoke:  the  Tex 
an's  gun  flashed  down  and  up  and  back,  as 
a  man  snaps  his  fingers  against  the  frost;  he 
tossed  his  empty  gun  through  the  sunlight  to 
the  bed  under  the  juniper  tree  and  spread  out 
his  hands.  Bill  was  still  firing  —  one  shot  — 
two! 

"  Judgment  I"  shouted  the  Texan  and 
pointed.  Six  bullet  holes  were  scattered  across 
his  target,  line  shots,  one  above  the  other;  and 
poor  Bill,  disconcerted,  had  missed  his  last  shot! 

"Jim,  I  guess  the  stuff  is  yours,"  said  Bill 
sheepishly. 

The  big  Texan  retrieved  his  gun  from  the 
bed  and  Pete  gave  him  the  stakes.  He  folded 
the  bill  lovingly  and  tucked  it  away;  but  he 
flipped  the  coin  from  his  thumb,  spinning  in 
the  sun,  caught  it  as  it  fell,  and  glanced  askant 
at  old  Pete. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  21 

"  How  long  ago  did  you  say  it  was  when  you 
began  shootin'?"  He  voiced  the  query  with 
exceeding  politeness  and  inclined  his  head 
deferentially.  "  Or  did  you  say?  " 

Pete  pondered,  pushing  his  hand  thought 
fully  through  his  white  hair. 

"Oh,  I  began  tryin'  when  I  was  about  ten 
years  old,  or  maybe  seven.  It's  been  so  long 
ago  I  scarcely  remember.  But  I  did  n't  get  to 
be  what  you  might  call  a  fair  shot  till  about 
the  time  you  was  puttin'  on  your  first  pair  of 
pants,"  he  said  sweetly.  " There  was  a  time, 
though,  before  that  —  when  I  was  about  the 
age  you  are  now  —  when  I  really  thought  I 
could  shoot.  I  learned  better. " 

A  choking  sound  came  from  Bill;  Jim  turned 
his  eyes  that  way.  Bill  coughed  hastily.  Jim 
sent  the  gold  piece  spinning  again. 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  keep  Bill's  tenspot  —  always," 
he  announced  emotionally.  "I'll  never,  never 
part  with  that!  But  this  piece  of  money —  " 
He  threw  it  up  again.  "Why,  stranger,  you 


22  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

might  just  as  well  have  that  as  not.  Bill  can 
be  stakeholder  and  give  us  the  word.  There's 
just  six  cartridges  left  in  the  box  for  me." 

Peter  Johnson  smiled  brightly,  disclosing  a 
row  of  small,  white,  perfect  teeth.  He  got  to 
his  feet  stiffly  and  shook  his  aged  legs;  he  took 
out  his  gun,  twirled  the  cylinder,  and  slipped 
in  an  extra  cartridge. 

"I  always  carry  the  hammer  on  an  empty 
chamber  —  safer  that  way,"  he  explained. 

He  put  the  gun  back  in  the  holster,  dug  up  a 
wallet,  and  produced  a  gold  piece  for  the  stake 
holder. 

'"'  You'd  better  clean  your  gun,  young  man," 
he  said.  "It  must  be  pretty  foul  by  now." 

Jim  followed  this  advice,  taking  ten  minutes 
for  the  operation.  Meantime  the  Californian 
replaced  the  targets  with  new  ones  —  old  tin 
dinner  plates  this  time  —  and  voiced  a  philo 
sophical  regret  over  his  recent  defeat.  The 
Texas  man,  ready  at  last,  took  his  place  beside 
Pete  and  raised  his  gun  till  the  butt  of  it  was 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  23 

level  with  his  ear,  the  barrel  pointing  up  and 
back.  Johnson  swung  up  his  heavy  gun  in  the 
same  fashion. 

"Ready?"  bawled  Bill.  "All  right!  One  — 
two  —  three  —  go ! " 

Johnson's  gun  leaped  forward,  blazing;  his 
left  hand  slapped  back  along  the  barrel,  once, 
twice;  pivoting,  his  gun  turned  to  meet  Bill, 
almost  upon  him,  hands  outstretched.  Bill 
recoiled ;  Pete  stepped  aside  a  pace  —  all  this 
at  once.  The  Texan  dropped  his  empty  gun 
and  turned. 

"  You  win,"  said  Pete  gently. 

Not  understanding  yet,  triumph  faded  from 
the  Texan's  eyes  at  that  gentle  tone.  He 
looked  at  the  target;  he  looked  at  Bill,  who 
stood  open-mouthed  and  gasping;  then  he 
looked  at  the  muzzle  of  Mr.  Johnson's  gun. 
His  face  flushed  red,  and  then  became  almost 
black.  Mr.  Johnson  held  the  gun  easily  at  his 
hip,  covering  both  his  disarmed  companions: 
Mr.  Johnson's  eyebrows  were  flattened  and  his 
mouth  was  twisted. 


24 '          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"It's  loaded!1'  croaked  Bill  in  a  horrified 
voice.  "The  skunk  only  shot  once!" 

Peter  corrected  him: 

"Three  times.  I  fanned  the  hammer.  Look 
at  the  target!" 

Bill  looked  at  the  target;  his  jaw  dropped 
again;  his  eyes  protruded.  There  were  three 
bullet  holes,  almost  touching  each  other, 
grouped  round  the  nail  in  the  center  of  Pete's 
tin  plate. 

"Well,  I'm  just  damned!"  he  said.  "I'll 
swear  he  did  n't  shoot  but  once." 

"That's  fannin'  the  hammer,  Shorty," 
drawled  Pete.  "Ever  hear  of  that?  Well,  now 
you've  seen  it.  When  you  practice  it,  hold 
your  elbow  tight  against  your  ribs  to  steady 
your  gun  while  you  slap  the  hammer  back. 
For  you,  Mr.  Jim  —  I  see  you've  landed  your 
six  shots;  but  some  of  'em  are  mighty  close  to 
the  edge  of  your  little  old  plate.  Poor  shootin' ! 
Poor  shootin'!  You  ought  to  practice  more. 
As  for  speed,  I  judge  I  can  do  six  shots  while 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  25 

you're  making  four.  But  I  thought  I'd  best 
not  —  to-day.  Son,  pick  up  your  gun,  and  get 
your  money  from  Shorty/' 

Mr.  Jim  picked  up  his  gun  and  threw  out 
the  empty  shells.  He  glared  savagely  at  Mr. 
Johnson,  now  seated  happily  on  his  saddle. 

"  If  I  just  had  hold  of  you  —  you  benched- 
legged  hound!  Curse  your  soul,  what  do  you 
mean  by  it?"  snarled  Jim. 

"Oh,  I  was  just  a-thinkin',"  responded  Pete 
lightly.  "Thinkin'  how  helpless  I'd  be  with 
you  two  big  huskies,  here  with  my  gun  empty. 
Don't  snicker,  Bill!  That's  rude  of  you. 
Your  pardner's  feeling  plenty  bad  enough 
without  that.  He  looks  it.  Mr.  Bill,  I  '11  bet  a 
blue  shirt  you  told  the  Jim-person  to  wait  and 
see  if  I  would  n't  take  a  little  siesta,  and  you'd 
get  me  whilst  I  was  snoozing.  You  lose,  then. 
I  never  sleep.  Tex,  for  the  love  of  Mike,  do 
look  at  Bill's  face;  and  Bill,  you  look  at  Mr. 
Jim,  from  Texas!  Guilty  as  charged!  Your 
scheme,  was  it,  Texas?  And  Shorty  Bill,  he 


26  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

told  you  so?  Why,  you  poor  toddling  inno 
cents,  you  won't  never  prosper  as  crooks! 
Your  faces  are  too  honest. 

"And  that  frame-up  of  yours  —  oh,  that 
was  a  loo- loo  bird!  Livin'  together  and  did  n't 
know  which  was  the  best  shot  —  likely !  And 
every  tin  can  in  sight  shot  full  of  holes  and 
testifyin'  against  you!  Think  I'm  blind,  hey? 
Even  your  horses  give  you  away.  Never  bat 
ted  an  eyelash  durin'  that  whole  cannonade. 
They've  been  hearin'  forty- fives  pretty  reg'lar, 
them  horses  have." 

"I  notice  your  old  black  ain't  much  gun- 
shy,  either,"  ventured  Bill. 

"See  here  —  you!"  said  the  big  Texan. 
"You  talk  pretty  biggity.  It's  mighty  easy  to 
run  a  whizzer  when  you  Ve  got  the  only  loaded 
gun  in  camp.  If  I  had  one  damned  cartridge 
left  it  would  be  different." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Johnson  kindly.  "I'll 
give  you  one!" 

Rising,  he  twirled   the  cylinder  of  his  gun 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  27 

and  extracted  his  three  cartridges.  He  threw 
one  far  down  the  hillslope;  he  dropped  one  on 
the  ground  beside  him;  he  tossed  the  last  one 
in  the  sand  at  the  Texan's  feet. 

Jim,  from  Texas,  looked  at  the  cartridge 
without  animation ;  he  looked  into  Pete  John 
son's  frosty  eyes;  he  kicked  the  cartridge  back. 

"I  lay  'em  down  right  here,"  he  stated 
firmly.  "  I  like  a  damned  fool;  but  you  suit  me 
too  well." 

He  stalked  away  toward  his  horse  with 
much  dignity.  He  stopped  halfway,  dropped 
upon  a  box,  pounded  his  thigh  and  gave  way 
to  huge  and  unaffected  laughter;  in  which  Bill 
joined  a  moment  later. 

"Oh,  you  little  bandy-legged  old  son-of-a- 
gun!"  Jim  roared.  "You  crafty,  wily,  cunnin' 
old  fox!  I'm  for  you!  Of  all  the  holy  shows, 
you  've  made  Bill  and  me  the  worst  —  'spe 
cially  me.  'There,  there!'  you  says,  consolin' 
me  up  like  I  was  a  kid  with  a  cracked  jug. 
'There,  there!  Never  mind  —  I'll  give  you 


28  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

one!'  Deah,  oh,  deah!  I'll  never  be  able  to 
keep  this  still  —  never  in  the  world.  I  'm 
bound  to  tell  it  on  myself!"  He  wiped  tears 
from  his  eyes  and  waved  his  hand  helplessly. 
"Take  the  ranch,  stranger.  She's  yours.  I 
would  n't  touch  you  if  you  was  solid  gold  and 
charges  prepaid." 

"Oh,  don't  make  a  stranger  of  me!"  begged 
Pete.  "You  was  callin'  me  by  the  name  of 
Johnson  half  an  hour  ago.  Forgot  yourself, 
likely." 

"Did  I?"  said  Jim  indifferently.  "  No  odds. 
You've  got  my  number,  anyway.  And  I 
thought  we  was  so  devilish  sly!" 

"Well,  boys,  thank  you  for  the  dinner  and 
all;  but  I  'd  best  be  jogging.  Got  to  catch  that 
train." 

Knitting  his  brows  reflectively  he  turned 
a  questioning  eye  upon  his  hosts.  But  Shorty 
Bill  took  the  words  from  his  mouth. 

"I'm  like  Jim:  I've  got  aplenty,"  he  said. 
"But  there's  a  repeating  rifle  in  the  shack,  if 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  29 

you  don't  want  to  risk  us.  You  can  leave  it  at 
Silverbell  for  us  if  you  want  to  —  at  the  saloon. 
And  we  can  ride  off  the  other  way,  so  you'll 
be  sure." 

" Maybe  that'll  be  best  —  considerin'," 
said  Pete.  "  I  '11  leave  the  gun." 

"See  here,  Johnson,"  said  Jim  stiffly. 
"We've  thrown  'em  down,  fair  and  square. 
I  think  you  might  trust  us." 

Pete  scratched  his  head  in  some  perplexity. 

"  I  think  maybe  I  might  if  it  was  only  my 
self  to  think  of.  But  I  'm  representing  another 
man's  interest  too.  I  ain't  takin'  no  chances." 

"Yes —  I  noticed  you  was  one  of  them  pru 
dent  guys,"  murmured  Jim. 

Pete  ignored  the  interruption. 

"So,  not  rubbin'  it  in  or  anything,  we'd 
best  use  Bill's  plan.  You  lads  hike  off  back  the 
way  I  come,  and  I  '11  take  your  rifle  and  drag 
it.  So  long!  Had  a  good  time  with  you." 

"Adidsl"  said  Bill,  swinging  into  the  iad* 
die. 


30  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Hold  on,  Bill!  Give  Johnson  back  his 
money,"  said  Jim. 

"  Oh,  you  keep  it.  You  won  it  fair.  I  did  n't 
go  to  the  finish." 

"Look  here  —  what  do  you  think  I  am? 
You  take  this  money,  or  I'll  be  sore  as  a  boil. 
There!  So  long,  old  hand!  Be  good!"  He 
spurred  after  Bill. 

Mr.  Johnson  brought  the  repeater  from  the 
dugout  and  saddled  old  Midnight.  As  he 
pulled  the  cinches  tight,  he  gazed  regretfully  at 
his  late  companions,  sky-lined  as  they  topped 
a  rise. 

"There!"  said  Mr.  Johnson  with  convic 
tion.  ' '  There  goes  a  couple  of  right  nice  boys ! " 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  immemorial  traditions  of  Old  Spain, 
backed  by  the  counsel  of  a  brazen  sun, 
made  a  last  stand  against  the  inexorable  cen 
turies:  Tucson  was  at  siesta;  noonday  lull  was 
drowsy  in  the  corridors  of  the  Merchants  and 
Miners  Bank.  Green  shades  along  the  south 
guarded  the  cool  and  quiet  spaciousness  of  the 
Merchants  and  Miners,  flooded  with  clear 
white  light  from  the  northern  windows.  In  the 
lobby  a  single  client,  leaning  on  the  sill  at  the 
note-teller's  window,  meekly  awaited  the  con 
venience  of  the  office  force. 

The  Castilian  influence  had  reduced  the 
office  force,  at  this  ebb  hour  of  business,  to  a 
spruce,  shirt-sleeved  young  man,  green-vizored 
as  to  his  eyes,  seated  at  a  mid-office  desk,  quite 
engrossed  with  mysterious  clerical  matters. 

The  office  force  had  glanced  up  at  Mr.  John 
son's  first  entrance,  but  only  to  resume  its 


32  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

work  at  once.  Such  industry  is  not  the  custom; 
among  the  assets  of  any  bank,  courtesy  is  the 
most  indispensable  item.  Mr.  Johnson  was 
not  unversed  in  the  ways  of  urbanity;  the  pur 
posed  and  palpable  incivility  was  not  wasted 
upon  him ;  nor  yet  the  expression  conveyed  by 
the  back  of  the  indefatigable  clerical  person  — 
a  humped,  reluctant,  and  rebellious  back.  If 
ever  a  back  steeled  itself  to  carry  out  a  dis 
tasteful  task  according  to  instructions,  this  was 
that  back.  Mr.  Pete  Johnson  sighed  in  sym 
pathy. 

The  minutes  droned  by.  A  clock,  of  hitherto 
unassuming  habit,  became  clamorous ;  it  echoed 
along  the  dreaming  corridors.  Mr.  Johnson 
sighed  again. 

The  stone  sill  upon  which  he  leaned  re 
flected  from  its  polished  surface  a  face  carved 
to  patience;  but  if  the  patient  face  had  noted 
its  own  reflection  it  might  have  remarked  — 
and  adjusted  —  eyebrows  not  so  patient,  flat 
tened  to  a  level;  and  a  slight  quiver  in  the 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  33 

tip  of  a  predatory  nose.  The  pen  squeaked 
across  glazed  paper.  Mr.  Johnson  took  from 
his  pocket  a  long,  thin  cigar  and  a  box  of  safety 
matches. 

The  match  crackled,  startling  in  the  silence; 
the  clerical  person  turned  in  his  chair  and 
directed  at  the  prospective  customer  a  stare 
so  baleful  that  the  cigar  was  forgotten.  The 
flame  nipped  Johnson's  thumb;  he  dropped 
the  match  on  the  tiled  floor  and  stepped  upon 
it.  The  clerk  hesitated  and  then  rose. 

"He  loves  me  —  he  loves  me  not!"  mur 
mured  Mr.  Johnson  sadly,  plucking  the  petals 
from  an  imaginary  daisy. 

The  clerk  sauntered  to  the  teller's  wicket 
and  frowned  upon  his  customer  from  under 
eyebrows  arched  and  supercilious;  he  pre 
served  a  haughty  silence.  Before  this  official 
disapproval  Peter's  eyes  wavered  and  fell, 
abashed. 

"I'll  — I'll  stick  my  face  through  there  if 
you'd  like  to  step  on  it!"  he  faltered. 


34  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

The  official  eyebrows  grew  arrogant. 

"You  are  wasting  my  time.  Have  you  any 
business  here?" 

"Ya-as.   Be  you  the  cashier?" 

"His  assistant." 

" I'd  like  to  borrow  some  money, "  said  Pete 
timidly.  He  tucked  away  the  unlit  cigar. 
"  Two  thousand.  Name  of  Johnson.  Triangle 
E  brand  —  Yavapai  County.1  Two  hundred 
Herefords  in  a  fenced  township.  Three  hun 
dred  and  twenty  acres  patented  land.  Sixty 
acres  under  ditch.  I  'd  give  you  a  mortgage  on 
that.  Pete  Johnson  —  Peter  Wallace  Johnson 
on  mortgages  and  warrants." 

"  I  do  not  think  we  would  consider  it." 

"Good  security  —  none  better,"  said  Pete. 
"Good  for  three  times  two  thousand  at  a 
forced  sale." 

"  Doubtless ! "  The  official  shoulders  shrugged 
incredulity. 

"I'm  known  round  here  —  you  could  look 
up  my  standing,  verify  ^titles,  and  so  on," 
urged  Pete. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  35 

"I  could  not  make  the  loan  on  my  own 
authority." 

Pete's  face  fell. 

"Can't  I  see  Mr.  Cans,  then?"  he  persisted. 

"He's  out  to  luncheon." 

"Be  back  soon?" 

"I  really  could  not  say." 

"I  might  talk  to  Mr.  Longman,  perhaps?" 

"Mr.  Longman  is  on  a  trip  to  the  Coast." 

Johnson  twisted  his  fingers  nervously  on  the 
onyx  sill.  Then  he  raised  his  downcast  eyes, 
lit  with  a  fresh  hope. 

"Is  —  is  the  janitor  in?"  he  asked. 

"You  are  pleased  to  be  facetious,  sir,"  the 
teller  replied.  His  lip  curled;  he  turned  away, 
tilting  his  chin  with  conscious  dignity. 

Mr.  Johnson  tapped  the  sill  with  the  finger 
of  authority. 

"Young  man,  do  you  want  1  should  throw 
this  bank  out  of  the  window?  "  he  said  severely. 
"Because  if  you  don't,  you  uncover  some  one 
a  grown  man  can  do  business  with.  You're 


36  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

suffering  from  delusions  of  grandeur,  fair 
young  sir.  I  almost  believe  you  have  per 
mitted  yourself  to  indulge  in  some  levity  with 
me  —  me,  P.  Wallace  Johnson !  And  if  I  note 
any  more  light-hearted  conduct  on  your  part 
I  '11  shake  myself  and  make  merry  with  you  till 
you'll  think  the  roof  has  done  fell  on  you. 
Now  you  dig  up  the  Grand  Panjandrum,  with 
the  little  round  button  on  top,  or  I  '11  come  in 
unto  you !  Produce !  Trot ! ' ' 

The  cashier's  dignity  abated.  Mr.  Johnson 
was,  by  repute,  no  stranger  to  him.  Not  sorry 
to  pass  this  importunate  borrower  on  to  other 
hands,  he  tapped  at  a  door  labeled  "Vice- 
President,"  opened  it,  and  said  something  in  a 
low  voice.  From  this  room  a  man  emerged  at 
once  —  Marsh,  vice-president,  solid  of  body, 
strong  of  brow.  Clenched  between  heavy  lips 
was  a  half-burned  cigar,  on  which  he  puffed 
angrily. 

"Well,  Johnson,  what's  this?"  he  de 
manded. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  37 

"You  got  money  to  sell?  I  want  to  buy  some. 
Let  me  come  in  and  talk  it  up  to  you." 

"Let  him  in,  Hudson,"  said  Marsh.  His 
cigar  took  on  a  truculent  angle  as  he  listened 
to  Johnson's  proposition. 

It  appeared  that  Johnson's  late  outburst 
of  petulance  had  cleared  his  bosom  of  much 
perilous  stuff.  His  crisp  tones  carried  a  sug 
gestion  of  lingering  asperity,  but  otherwise  he 
bore  himself  with  becoming  modesty  and  diffi 
dence  in  the  presence  of  the  great  man.  He 
stated  his  needs  briskly  and  briefly,  as  before. 

"Money  is  tight,"  said  Marsh  curtly. 

He  scowled;  he  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  as  if  to  guard  them;  he  rocked  back 
upon  his  heels ;  his  eyes  were  leveled  at  a  point 
in  space  beyond  Pete's  shoulder;  he  clamped 
his  cigar  between  compressed  lips  and  puffed  a 
cloud  of  smoke  from  a  corner  of  a  mouth  other 
wise  grimly  tight. 

Mr.  Peter  Johnson  thought  again  of  that 
unlit  cigar,  came  swiftly  to  tiptoe,  and  puffed 


38  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

a  light  from  the  glowing  tip  of  Marsh's  cigar 
before  that  astonished  person  could  withdraw 
his  gaze  from  the  contemplation  of  remote 
infinities.  The  banker  recoiled,  flushed  and 
frowning;  the  teller  bent  hastily  over  his  ledger. 

Johnson,  puffing  luxuriously,  renewed  his 
argument  with  a  guileless  face.  Marsh  shook 
his  head  and  made  a  bear-trap  mouth. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  Prescott,  Johnson? 
There's  where  your  stuff  is.  They  know  you 
better  than  we  do/1 

"Why,  Mr.  Marsh,  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
Prescott.  Takes  too  long.  I  need  this  money 
right  away." 

"Really  —  but  that  is  hardly  our  affair,  is 
it?"  A  frosty  smile  accompanied  the  query. 

"Aw,  what's  wrong?  Isn't  that  security  all 
right?"  urged  Pete. 

"No  doubt  the  security  is  exactly  as  you 
say,"  said  the  banker,  "but  your  property  is 
in  another  county,  a  long  distance  from  here. 
We  would  have  to  make  inquiries  and  send  the 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  39 

mortgage  to  be  filed  in  Prescott  —  very  incon 
venient.  Besides,  as  I  told  you  before,  money 
is  tight.  We  regret  that  we  cannot  see  our  way 
to  accommodate  you.  This  is  final!" 

"Shucks!"  said  Pete,  crestfallen  and  dis 
appointed;  he  lingered  uncertainly,  twisting 
his  hatbrim  between  his  hands. 

"  That  is  final,"  repeated  the  banker.  "  Was 
there  anything  else?" 

"A  check  to  cash,"  said  Pete  humbly. 

He  went  back  into  the  lobby,  much  chas 
tened;  the  spring  lock  of  the  door  snapped  be 
hind  him. 

"Wait  on  this  gentleman,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Hudson,"  said  Marsh,  and  busied  himself  at  a 
cabinet. 

Hudson  rose  from  his  desk  and  moved  across 
to  the  cashier's  window.  His  lip  curved  dis 
dainfully.  Mr.  Johnson's  feet  were  brisk  and 
cheerful  on  the  tiles.  When  his  face  appeared 
at  the  window,  his  hat  and  the  long  black  cigar 
were  pushed  up  to  angles  parallel,  jaunty  and 


40  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

perilous.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  sheaf  of  papers 
belted  with  a  rubber  band;  he  slid  over  the  top 
most  of  these  papers,  face  down. 

"It's  endorsed,"  he  said,  pointing  to  his 
heavy  signature. 

"How  will  you  have  it,  sir?"  Hudson  in 
quired  with  a  smile  of  mocking  deference. 

"Quick  and  now,"  said  Pete. 

Hudson  flipped  over  the  check.  The  sneer 
died  from  his  face.  His  tongue  licked  at  his 
paling  lips. 

"What  does  this  mean?"   he  stammered. 

''Can't  you  read?"    said  Pete. 

The  cashier  did  not  answer.  He  turned  and 
called  across  the  room: 

"Mr.  Marsh!  Mr.  Marsh!" 

Marsh  came  quickly,  warned  by  the  star 
tled  note  in  the  cashier's  voice.  Hudson  passed 
him  the  check  with  hands  that  trembled  a 
little.  The  vice-president's  face  mottled  with 
red  and  white.  The  check  was  made  to  the 
order  of  P.  W.  Johnson;  it  was  signed  by  Henry 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  41 

Bergman,  sheriff  of  Pima  County,  and  the 
richest  cowman  of  the  Santa  Cruz  Valley;  the 
amount  was  eighty-six  thousand  dollars. 

Marsh  glowered  at  Johnson  in  a  cold  fury. 

44  Call  up  Bergman!"  he  ordered. 

Hudson  made  haste  to  obey. 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right !  I  'd  just  as  soon  wait,  " 
said  Pete  cheerfully.  "  Hank 's  at  home,  any 
how.  I  told  him  maybe  you'd  want  to  ask 
about  the  check." 

"He  should  have  notified  us  before  drawing 
out  any  such  amount,"  fumed  Marsh.  "This 
is  most  unusual,  for  a  small  bank  like  this. 
He  told  us  he  should  n't  need  this  money  until 
this  fall." 

44  Draft  on  El  Paso  will  do.  Don't  have  to 
have  cash." 

44  All  very  well  —  but  it  will  be  a  great  in 
convenience  to  us,  just  the  same." 

4 'Really  —  but  that  is  hardly  our  affair,  is 
it?"  said  Pete  carelessly. 

The  banker  smote  the  shelf  with  an  angry 


42  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

hand ;  some  of  the  rouleaus  of  gold  stacked  on 
the  inner  shelf  toppled  and  fell;  gold  pieces 
clattered  on  the  floor. 

"  Johnson,  what  is  your  motive?  What  are 
you  up  to?" 

"It's  all  perfectly  simple.  Old  Hank  and 
me  used  to  be  implicated  together  in  the 
cow  business  down  on  the  Concho.  One  of 
the  Goliad  Bergmans  —  early  German  set 
tlers." 

Here  Hudson  hung  up  and  made  interrup 
tion. 

"Bergman  says  the  check  is  right,"  he  re 
ported. 

Johnson  resumed  his  explanation: 

"As  I  was  say  in',  I  reckon  I  know  all  the 
old-time  cowmen  from  here  to  breakfast  and 
back.  Old  Joe  Benavides,  now  —  one  of  your 
best  depositors;  I  fished  Joe  out  of  Manzanillo 
Bay  thirty  year  back.  He  was  all  drowned  but 
Amen." 

Wetting  his  thumb  he  slipped  off  the  next 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  43 

paper  from  under  the  rubber  band.  Marsh 
eyed  the  sheaf  apprehensively  and  winced. 

"Got  one  of  Joe's  checks  here,"  Pete  con 
tinued,  smoothing  it  out.  "  But  maybe  I  won't 
need  to  cash  it  —  to-day. " 

"  Johnson,"  said  the  vice-president,  "are you 
trying  to  start  a  run  on  this  bank?  What  do 
you  want?" 

"My  money.  What  the  check  calls  for. 
That  is  final." 

"This  is  sheer  malice." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  You're  all  wrong.  Just 
common  prudence  —  that's  all.  You  see,  I 
needed  a  little  money.  As  I  was  tellin'  you,  I 
got  right  smart  of  property,  but  no  cash  just 
now;  nor  any  comin'  till  steer-sellin'  time.  So 
I  come  down  to  Tucson  on  the  rustle.  Five 
banks  in  Tucson;  four  of  'em,  countin'  yours, 
turned  me  down  cold." 

"If  you  had  got  Bergman  to  sign  with 
you  —  "  Marsh  began. 

"Tell  that  to  the  submarines,"  said  Pete. 


44     COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Good  irrigated  land  is  better  than  any  man's 
name  on  a  note;  and  I  don't  care  who  that  man 
is.  A  man  might  die  or  run  away,  or  play  the 
market.  Land  stays  put.  Well,  after  my  first 
glimpse  of  the  cold  shoulder  I  ciphered  round 
a  spell.  I'm  a  great  hand  to  cipher  round^ 
Some  one  is  out  to  down  me;  some  one  is  givin' 
out  orders.  Who?  Mayer  Zurich,  I  judged. 
He  sold  me  a  shoddy  coat  once.  And  he  wept 
because  he  could  n't  loan  me  the  money  I 
wanted,  himself.  He 's  one  of  these  liers-in-wait 
you  read  about  —  Mayer  is. 

"So  I  did  n't  come  to  you  till  the  last,  bein* 
as  Zurich  was  one  of  your  directors.  I  studied 
some  more  —  and  then  I  hunted  up  old  Hank 
Bergman  and  told  him  my  troubles,"  said  Pete 
suavely.  "He  expressed  quite  some  consider 
able  solicitude.  'Why,  Petey,  this  is  a  shockin' 
disclosure!'  he  says.  'A  banker  is  a  man  that 
makes  a  livin'  loanin'  other  people's  money. 
Lots  of  marble  and  brass  to  a  bank,  salaries 
and  other  expenses.  Show  me  a  bank  that's 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  45 

quit  lendin'  money  and  I  '11  show  you  a  bank 
that's  due  to  bust,  muy  pronto!  I  got  quite 
a  wad  in  the  Merchants  and  Miners/  he  says, 
4  and  you  alarm  me.  I  '11  give  you  a  check  for 
it,  and  you  go  there  first  off  to-morrow  and  see 
if  they'll  lend  you  what  you  need.  You  got 
good  security.  If  they  ain't  lendin'/  he  says, 
'then  you  just  cash  my  check  and  invest  it  for 
me  where  it  will  be  safe.  I  lose  the  interest  for 
only  four  days/  he  says  —  'last  Monday,  the 
fifteenth,  being  my  quarter  day.  Hold  out 
what  you  need  for  yourself.' 

"  '  I  don't  want  any/  says  I.  'The  First  Na 
tional  say  they  can  fit  me  out  by  Wednesday 
if  I  can't  get  it  before.  Man  don't  want  to 
borrow  from  his  friends/  says  I.  '  Then  put  my 
roll  in  the  First  National/  says  Hank.  That's 
all !  Only  —  I  saw  some  of  the  other  old-tim 
ers  last  night."  Pete  fingered  his  sheaf  signifi 
cantly. 

"  You  have  us ! "  said  Marsh.  "  What  do  you 
want?" 


46  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"I  want  the  money  for  this  check  —  so 
you  '11  know  I  'm  not  permeated  with  any  ideas 
about  heaping  coals  of  fire  on  your  old  bald 
head.  Come  through,  real  earnest!  I'll  see 
about  the  rest.  Exerting  financial  pressure  is 
what  they  call  this  little  racket  you  worked  on 
me,  I  believe.  It's  a  real  nice  game.  I  like  it. 
If  you  ever  mull  or  meddle  with  my  affairs 
again  I  '11  turn  another  check.  That's  for  your 
official  information  —  so  you  can  keep  the 
bank  from  any  little  indiscretions.  I  'm  telling 
you!  This  is  n't  blackmail.  This  is  directions. 
Sit  down  and  write  me  a  draft  on  El  Paso." 

Marsh  complied.  Peter  Johnson  inspected 
the  draft  carefully. 

"So  much  for  the  bank  for  to-day,  the  nine 
teenth,"  said  Pete.  "Now  a  few  kind  words 
for  you  as  the  individual,  Mr.  George  Marsh, 
quite  aside  from  your  capacity  as  a  banker. 
You  report  to  Zurich  that  I  applied  for  a  loan 
and  you  refused  it  —  not  a  word  more.  I  'm 
tellin'  you!  Put  a  blab  on  your  office  boy."  He 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  47 

rolled  his  thumb  at  young  Hudson.  "And  here 
after  if  you  ever  horn  in  on  my  affairs  so  much 
as  the  weight  of  a  finger  tip  —  I'm  tellin'  you 
now!  —  I '11  appear  to  you!" 


CHAPTER  III  ' 

THE  world  was  palpably  a  triangle,  base 
less  to  southward;  walled  out  by  iron, 
radiant  ramparts  —  a  black  range,  gateless, 
on  the  east;  a  gray  range  on  the  west,  broken, 
spiked,  and  bristling.  At  the  northern  limit  of 
vision  the  two  ranges  closed  together  to  what 
seemed  relatively  the  sharp  apex  of  the  tri 
angle,  the  mere  intersection  of  two  lines.  This 
point,  this  seemingly  dimensionless  dot,  was 
in  reality  twoscore  weary  miles  of  sandhills, 
shapeless,  vague,  and  low;  waterless,  color 
less,  and  forlorn.  Southward  the  central  desert 
was  uninhabitable;  opinions  differed  about  the 
edges. 

Still  in  Arizona,  the  eye  wearied;  miles  and 
leagues  slid  together  to  indistinguishable 
inches.  Then  came  a  low  line  of  scattered  hills 
that  roughly  marked  the  Mexican  border. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL     49 

The  mirage  played  whimsical  pranks  with 
these  outpost  hills.  They  became,  in  turn, 
cones,  pyramids,  boxes,  benches,  chimney 
stacks,  hourglasses.  Sometimes  they  soared 
high  in  air,  like  the  kites  of  a  baby  god;  and, 
beneath,  the  unbroken  desert  stretched  afar, 
wavering,  misty,  and  dim. 

Again,  on  clear,  still  days,  these  hills  showed 
crystalline,  thin,  icy,  cameo-sharp;  beyond, 
between,  faint  golden  splotches  of  broad  So- 
noran  plain  faded  away  to  nothingness;  and,  far 
beyond  that  nothingness,  hazy  Sonoran  peaks 
of  dimmest  blue  rose  from  illimitable  immen 
sities,  like  topmasts  of  a  very  large  ship  on  a 
very  small  globe;  and  the  earth  was  really 
round,  as  alleged. 

It  was  fitting  and  proper  that  the  desert,  as 
a  whole,  had  no  name:  the  spinning  earth  it 
self  has  none.  Inconsiderable  nooks  and  cor 
ners  were  named,  indeed  —  Crow  Flat,  the 
Temporal,  Moonshine,  the  Rinconada.  It 
should  rather  be  said,  perhaps,  that  the  desert 


50  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

had  no  accepted  name.  Alma  Mater,  Lungs 
called  it.  But  no  one  minded  Lungs. 

Mr.  Stanley  Mitchell  woke  early  in  the  Blue 
Bedroom  to  see  the  morning  made.  He  threw 
back  the  tarpaulin  and  sat  up,  yawning;  with 
every  line  of  his  face  crinkled  up,  ready  to 
laugh  for  gladness. 

The  morning  was  shaping  up  well.  Glints  of 
red  snapped  and  sparkled  in  the  east;  a  few 
late  stars  loitered  along  the  broad,  clean  skies. 
A  jerky  clatter  of  iron  on  rock  echoed  from 
the  cliffs.  That  was  the  four  hobbled  horses, 
browsing  on  the  hillside:  they  snuffed  and 
snorted  cheerfully,  rejoicing  in  the  freshness  of 
dawn.  From  a  limestone  bluff,  ten  feet  behind 
the  bed,  came  a  silver  tinkle  of  falling  water 
from  a  spring,  dripping  into  its  tiny  pool. 

Stan  drew  in  a  great  breath  and  snuffed, 
exactly  as  the  horses  snuffed  and  from  the 
same  reason  —  to  express  delight;  just  as  a 
hungry  man  smacks  his  lips  over  a  titbit. 
Pungent,  aromatic,  the  odor  of  wood  smoke 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  51 

alloyed  the  taintless  air  of  dawn.  The  whole' 
some  smell  of  clean,  brown  earth,  the  spicy 
tang  of  crushed  herb  and  shrub,  of  cedar  and 
juniper,  mingled  with  a  delectable  and  savory 
fragrance  of  steaming  coffee  and  sizzling, 
spluttering  venison. 

Pete  Johnson  sat  cross-legged  before  the 
fire.  This  mess  of  venison  was  no  hit-or-miss 
affair;  he  was  preparing  a  certain  number  of 
venison  steaks,  giving  to  each  separate  steak 
the  consideration  of  an  artist. 

Stanley  Mitchell  kicked  the  blankets  flying. 

"Whoo-hoo-oo!  This  is  the  life!"  he  pro 
claimed.  Orisons  more  pious  have  held  less 
gratitude. 

He  tugged  on  one  boot,  reached  for  the  other 
—  and  then  leaped  to  his  feet  like  a  jack-in- 
the-box.  With  the  boot  in  his  hand  he  pointed 
to  the  south.  High  on  the  next  shadowy  range, 
thirty  miles  away,  a  dozen  scattered  camp- 
fires  glowed  across  the  dawn. 

"What  the  Billy-hell?"  he  said,  startled. 


52  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"  Stan-ley !" 

"I  will  say  wallop!  I  won't  be  a  lady  if  I 
can't  say  wallop!"  quoth  Stan  rebelliously. 
'' What's  doing  over  at  the  Gavilan?  There's 
never  been  three  men  at  once  in  those  fiend- 
forsaken  pinnacles  before.  Hey !  S'pose  they  've 
struck  it  rich,  like  we  did?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  sighed  Pete.  "You 
toddle  along  and  wash  urn's  paddies.  She's 
most  ripe." 

With  a  green-wood  poker  he  lifted  the  lid 
from  the  bake-oven.  The  biscuit  were  not 
browned  to  his  taste;  he  dumped  the  blacken 
ing  coals  from  the  lid  and  slid  it  into  the  glow 
ing  heart  of  the  fire;  he  raked  out  a  new  bed 
of  coals  and  lifted  the  little  three-legged  bake- 
oven  over  them;  with  his  poker  he  skillfully 
flirted  fresh  coals  on  the  rimmed  lid  and  put  it 
back  on  the  oven.  He  placed  the  skillet  of 
venison  on  a  flat  rock  at  his  elbow  and  poured 
coffee  into  two  battered  tin  cups.  Breakfast 
was  now  ready,  and  Pete  raised  his  voice  in 
the  traditional  dinner  call  of  the  ranges: 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  53 

"Come  and  get  it  or  I'll  throw  it  out!" 

Stanley  came  back  from  a  brisk  toilet  at 
Ironspring.  He  took  a  preliminary  sip  of  coffee, 
speared  a  juicy  steak,  and  eyed  his  companion 
darkly.  Mr.  Johnson  plied  knife  and  fork  as 
siduously,  with  eyes  downcast  and  demure. 

Stanley  Mitchell's  smooth  young  face  lined 
with  suspicion. 

"When  you've  been  up  to  some  deviltry  I 
can  always  tell  it  on  you  —  you  look  so  in 
credibly  meek  and  meechin',  like  a  cat  eatin' 
the  canary,"  he  remarked  severely.  "Thank 
you  for  a  biscuit.  And  the  sugar!  Now  what 
warlockry  is  this?"  He  jerked  a  thumb  at  the 
far-off  fires.  "What's  the  merry  prank?" 

Mr.  Johnson  sighed  again. 

"Deception.  Treachery.  Mine."  He  looked 
out  across  the  desert  to  the  Gavilan  Hills  with 
a  complacent  eye.  "And  breach  of  trust. 
Mine,  again." 

"Who  you  been  betrayin'  now?" 

"Just  you.    You  and  your  pardner;  the  last 


54  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

bein'  myself.  You  know  them  location  papers 
of  ours  I  was  to  get  recorded  at  Tucson?  " 

Stanley  nodded. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Pete,  "  I  did  n't  file  them 
papers.  Something  real  curious  happened  on 
the  way  in  —  and  I  reckon  I  'm  the  most  su 
perstitious  man  you  ever  see.  So  I  tried  a  little 
experiment.  Instead,  I  wrote  out  a  notice  for 
that  little  old  ledge  we  found  over  on  the  Gav- 
ilan  a  month  back.  I  filed  that,  just  to  see  if 
any  one  was  keeping  cases  on  us  —  and  I  filed 
it  the  very  last  thing  before  I  left  Tucson: 
You  see  what's  happened."  He  waved  his 
empty  coffee-cup  at  the  camp-fires.  "I  come 
right  back  and  we  rode  straight  to  Ironspring. 
But  there's  been  people  ridin'  faster  than  us  — 
ridin'  day  and  night.  Son,  if  our  copper  claims 
had  really  been  in  the  Gavilan,  instead  of  a-hun- 
dred-and-then-some  long  miles  in  another- 
guess  direction  —  then  what?" 

"  We'd  have  found  our  claim  jumped  and  a 
bunch  to  swear  they  'd  been  working  there  be- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  55 

fore  the  date  of  our  notices;  that  they  did  n't 
find  the  scratch  of  a  pick  on  the  claim,  no 
papers  and  no  monument  —  that 's  what  we  'd 
have  found." 

" Correct!  Pass  the  meat." 

^But  we  haven't  told  a  soul,"  protested 
Stanley.  "How  could  any  one  know?  We  all 
but  died  of  thirst  getting  back  across  the  desert 
—  the  wind  rubbed  out  our  tracks;  we  laid  up 
at  Soledad  Springs  a  week  before  any  one  saw 
us;  when  we  finally  went  in  to  Cobre  no  one 
knew  where  we  had  been,  that  we  had  found 
anything,  or  even  that  we'd  been  looking  for 
anything.  How  could  any  one  know?" 

"This  breakfast  is  getting  cold,"  said  Pete 
Johnson.  "Good  grub  hurts  no  one.  Let 'seat 
it.  Then  I  '11  let  a  little  ray  of  intelligence  filter 
into  your  darkened  mind." 

Breakfast  finished,  Stan  piled  the  tin  dishes 
with  a  clatter.  "Now  then,  old  Greedy! 
Break  the  news  to  me." 

Pete  considered  young  Stan  through  half- 


56  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

closed  lids  —  a  tanned,  smooth-faced,  laugh* 
ing,  curly-headed,  broad-shouldered  young 
giant. 

"You  got  any  enemies,  pardner?" 

"Not  one  in  the  world  that  I  know  of,"  de 
clared  Stan  cheerfully. 

"Back  in  New  York,  maybe?" 
\  "Not  a  one.  No  reason  to  have  one." 

Pete  shook  his  head  reflectively. 

"You're  dreadful  dumb,  you  know.  Think 
again.  Think  hard.  Take  some  one's  girl 
away  from  him,  maybe?" 

"Not  a  girl.  Never  had  but  one  Annie," 
said  Stanley.  " I'm  her  Joe." 

"  Ya-as.  Back  in  New  York.  I  Ve  posted  let 
ters  to  her:  Abingdon  P.  O.  Name  of  Selden." 

Stanley  went  brick  red. 

"That's  her.  I'm  her  Joe.  And  when  we 
get  this  little  old  bonanza  of  ours  to  grinding 
she  won't  be  in  New  York  any  more.  Come 
again,  old-timer.  What's  all  this  piffle  got  to 
do  with  our  mine?" 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  57 

"If  you  only  had  a  little  brains,"  sighed 
Johnson  disconsolately,  "  I  'd  soon  find  out  who 
had  it  in  for  you,  and  why.  It's  dreadful  in 
convenient  to  have  a  pardner  like  that.  Why, 
you  poor,  credulous  baa-lamb  of  a  trustful  idiot, 
when  you  let  me  go  off  to  file  them  papers, 
don't  you  see  you  give  me  the  chance  to  rob 
you  of  a  mine  worth,  just  as  she  stands, 
'most  any  amount  of  money  you  chance  to 
mention?  Not  you!  You  let  me  ride  off  with 
out  a  misgivin'." 

"Pish!"  remarked  Stan  scornfully.  "Twad 
dle!  Tommyrot!  Pickles!" 

Pete  wagged  a  solemn  forefinger. 

"  If  you  was  n't  plumb  simple-minded  and 
trustin'  you  would  'a'  tumbled  long  ago  that 
somebody  was  putting  a  hoodoo  on  every  play 
you  make.  I  caught  on  before  you  'd  been  here 
six  months.  I  thought,  of  course,  you'd  been 
doin'  dirt  to  some  one  —  till  I  come  to  know 
you." 

"I    thank   you    for    those    kind    words," 


58  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

grinned  Mitchell;  "also,  for  the  friendly  ex 
planation  with  which  you  cover  up  some  bad 
luck  and  more  greenhorn's  incompetence.'1 

"No  greenhorn  could  be  so  thumbhand- 
sided  as  all  that,"  rejoined  Pete  earnestly. 
"Your  irrigation  ditches  break  and  wash  out; 
cattle  get  into  your  crops  whenever  you  go  to 
town;  but  your  fences  never  break  when  you  're 
round  the  ranch.  Notice  that?" 

"I  did  observe  something  of  that  nature," 
confessed  Mitchell.  "I  laid  it  to  sheer  bad 
luck." 

The  older  man  snorted. 

"Bad  luck!  You've  been  hoodooed!  After 
that,  you  went  off  by  your  lonesome  and  tried 
cattle.  Your  windmills  broke  down;  your 
cattle  was  stole  plumb  opprobrious  —  Mex 
icans  blamed,  of  course.  And  the  very  first 
winter  the  sheep  drifted  in  on  you  —  where  no 
sheep  had  never  blatted  before  —  and  eat  you 
out  of  house  and  home." 

"  I  sold  out  in  the  spring,"  reflected  Stanley. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  59 

"I  ran  two  hundred  head  of  stock  up  to  one 
hundred  and  twelve  in  six  months.  Go  on! 
Your  story  interests  me  strangely.  I  begin  to 
think  I  was  not  as  big  a  fool  as  I  thought  I  was, 
and  that  it  was  foolish  of  me  to  ever  think  my 
folly  was—  " 

Johnson  interrupted  him. 

"Then  you  bought  a  bunch  of  sheep.  Son, 
you  can't  realize  how  great-minded  it  is  of  me 
to  overlook  that  slip  of  yours!  You  w"as  out  of 
the  way  of  every  man  in  the  world;  you  was  on 
your  own  range,  watering  at  your  own  wells  — 
the  only  case  like  that  on  record.  And  the 
second  dark  night  some  petulant  and  highly 
anonymous  cowboys  run  off  your  herder  and 
stampeded  your  woollies  over  a  bluff. " 

"Sheep  outrages  have  happened  before,"  ob 
served  Stan,  rather  dryly. 

"Sheep  outrages  are  perpetrated  by  cowmen 
on  cow  ranges,"  rejoined  Pete  hotly.  "I  guess 
I  ought  to  know.  Sheepmen  are  n't  ever  killed 
on  their  own  ranges;  it  isn't  respectable. 


60  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Sheepmen  are  all  right  in  their  place  —  and 
hell's  the  place." 

"Peter!"  said  Stan.   "Such  langwidge!" 

"Wallop!  Wallop!"  barked  Peter,  defiant 
and  indignant.  "I  will  say  wallop!  Now  you 
shut  up  whilst  I  go  on  with  your  sad  history. 
Son,  you  was  afflicted  some  with  five-card  in 
somnia  —  and  right  off,  when  you  first  came, 
you  had  it  fair  shoved  on  you  by  people  usu 
ally  most  disobligin'.  It  was  n't  just  for  your 
money;  there  was  plenty  could  stack  'em 
higher  than  you  could,  and  them  fairly  achin' 
to  be  fleeced,  at  that.  If  your  head  had  n't 
been  attached  to  your  shoulders  good  and 
strong,  if  you  had  n't  figured  to  be  about 
square,  or  maybe  rectangular,  you  had  a 
chance  to  be  a  poker  fiend  or  a  booze  hoist." 

"You're  spoofing  me,  old  dear.  Wake  up; 
it's  morning." 

"Don't  fool  yourself,  son.  There  was  a 
steady  organized  effort  to  get  you  in  bad.  And 
it  took  money  to  get  all  these  people  after  your 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  61 

goat.  Some  one  round  here  was  managin'  the 
game,  for  pay.  But 't  was  n't  no  Arizona  head 
that  did  the  plannin'.  Any  Rocky  Mountain 
roughneck  mean  enough  for  that  would  'a* 
just  killed  you  once  and  been  done  with  it. 
No,  sir;  this  party  was  plumb  civilized  —  this 
guy  that  wanted  your  goat.  He  wanted  to 
spoil  your  rep;  he  probably  had  conscientious 
scruples  about  bloodshed.  Early  trainin'," 
said  Mr.  Johnson  admiringly,  "is  a  wonderful 
thing!  And,  after  they  found  you  wouldn't 
fall  for  the  husks  and  things,  they  went  out  to 
put  a  crimp  in  your  bank  roll.  Now,  who  is  to 
gain  by  putting  you  on  the  blink,  huh?" 

"No  one  at  all,"  said  Stan.  "You're  seein' 
things  at  night!  What  happened  on  the  Cobre 
Trail  to  stir  up  your  superstitions?" 

"Two  gay  young  lads  —  punchers  of  Zu 
rich's —  tried  to  catch  me  with  my  gun  un 
loaded.  That's  what!  And  if  herdin'  with 
them  blasted  baa-sheep  had  n't  just  about 
ruined  your  intellect,  you'd  know  why,  with- 


62  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

out  asking/' said  Pete.  " Look  now!  I  was  so 
sure  that  you  was  bein'  systematically  horns- 
woggled  that,  when  two  rank  strangers  made 
that  sort  of  a  ranikiboo  play  at  me,  I  talked 
it  out  with  myself,  like  this  —  not  out  loud  — 
just  me  and  Pete  colloguing: 

'These  gentlemen  are  pickin'  on  you, 
Pete.  What's  that  for?'  'Why,'  says  Pete, 
'that's  because  you're  Stan's  pardner,  of 
course.  These  two  laddie-bucks  are  some  small 
part  of  the  gang,  bunch,  or  congregation  that's 
been  preyin'  on  Stan.'  'What  they  tryin'  to 
put  over  on  Stan  now?'  I  asks,  curiosity  get 
ting  the  better  of  my  good  manners.  '  Not  to 
pry  into  private  matters  any,'  says  I,  'but  this 
thing  is  getting  personal.  I  can  feel  malicious 
animal  magnetism  coursin'  through  every  vein 
and  leapin'  from  crag  to  crag,'  says  I.  'A  joke 's 
a  joke,  and  I  can  take  a  joke  as  well  as  any 
man;  but  when  I'm  sick  in  my  bed,  and  the 
undertaker  comes  to  my  house  and  looks  into 
my  window  and  says,  "Darlin'I  I  am  waitin* 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  63 

for  thee!"  —  that's  no  joke.  And  if  Stanley 
Mitchell's  facetious  friends  begin  any  hilarity 
with  me  I  '11  transact  negotiations  with  'em  — 
sure!  So  I  put  it  up  to  you,  Petey  —  square 
and  aboveboard — what  are  they  try  in'  to  work 
on  Stan  now? ' 

"'To  get  his  mine,  you  idjit!'  says  Pete. 
'Now  be  reasonable,'  says  I.  'How'd  they 
know  we  got  any  mine? '  '  Did  n't  you  tote  a 
sample  out  of  that  blisterin'  old  desert?'  says 
Pete.  'We  did,'  I  admits,  'just  one  little  chunk 
the  size  of  a  red  apple  —  and  it  weighed  near  a 
couple  of  ton  whilst  we  was  perishin'  for  water. 
But  we  stuck  to  it  closer  than  a  rich  brother- 
in-law,'  says  I.  'You  been  had!'  jeers  Pete. 
'What  kind  of  talk  is  this?  You  caught  that 
off  o'  Thorpe,  over  on  the  Malibu  —  you  been 
had !  Talk  United  States !  Do  you  mean  I ' ve 
been  bunked?'  I  spoke  up  sharp;  but  I  was 
feelin'  pretty  sick,  for  I  just  remembered  that 
we  did  n't  register  that  sample  when  we  mailed 
it  to  the  assayer. 


64  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"'Your  nugget's  been  seen,  and  sawed,  and 
smeltered.  Got  that?  As  part  of  the  skuldug 
gery  they  been  slippin'  to  young  Stan,  your 
package  has  been  opened,'  says  Petey,  leerin' 
at  me.  'Great  Scott!  Then  they  know  we  got 
just  about  the  richest  mine  in  Arizona! '  I  says, 
with  my  teeth  chatterin'  so  that  I  stammers. 
'Gosh,  no!  Else  the  coyotes  would  be  pickin* 
your  bones,'  says  Pete.  'They  know  you've 
got  some  rich  ore,  but  they  figure  it  to  be  some 
narrow,  pinchin',  piddlin'  little  vein  some- 
wheres.  How  can  they  guess  you  found  a  solid 
mountain  of  the  stuff?' 

"'Sufferin'  cats!'  says  I.  'Then  is  every 
play  I  make  —  henceforth  and  forever,  amen 
—  to  be  gaumed  up  by  a  mess  of  hirelin* 
bandogs?  Persecutin'  Stan  was  all  very  well  — 
but  if  they  take  to  molesting  me  any,  it's 
going  to  make  my  blood  fairly  boil!  Is  some 
one  going  to  draw  down  wages  for  makin'  me 
mizzable  all  the  rest  of  my  whole  life?'  'No 
such  luck,'  says  Petey.  'Your  little  ore  pack- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIt  65 

age  was  taken  from  the  mail  as  part  of  the 
system  of  pesterin'  Stanley  —  but,  once  the 
big  boss-devil  glued  his  bug-eyes  on  that  free- 
workin'  copper  stuff,  he  throwed  up  his  em 
ployer  and  his  per  diem,  and  is  now  operat 
ing  roundabout  on  his  own.  They  take  it  you 
might  have  papers  about  you  showing  where 
your  claim  is  —  location  papers,  likely.  That's 
all!  These  ducks,  here,  want  to  go  through 
you.  Nobody  wants  to  kill  you  —  not  now. 
Not  yet  —  any  more  than  usual.  But,  if  you 
ask  me,'  said  Petey, '  if  they  ever  come  to  know 
as  much  about  that  copper  claim  as  you  know, 
they'll  do  you  up.  Yes,  sir!  From  ambush, 
likely.  So  long  as  they  are  dependin'  on  you  to 
lead  them  to  it,  you're  safe  from  that  much, 
maybe.  After  they  find  out  where  it  is  — 
cuidado!1 

"But  who  took  that  package  out  of  the 
mail,  Petey?  It  might  have  been  any  one  of 
several  or  more  —  old  Zurich,  here  at  Cobre; 
or  the  postmaster  at  Silverbell;  or  the  postal 


66  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

clerks  on  the  railroad ;  or  the  post-office  people 
at  El  Paso/ 

'"You're  an  old  pig-headed  fool/  says  Pete 
to  me; ' and  you  lie  like  a  thief.  You  know  who 
it  was,  same  as  I  do  —  old  C.  Mayer  Zurich, 
grand  champion  lightweight  collar-and-elbow 
grafter  and  liar,  cowman,  grubstaker,  general 
storekeeper,  postmaster,  and  all-round  crook, 
right  here  in  Cobre  —  right  here  where  young 
Stanley 's  been  gettin'  'em  dealt  from  the  bot 
tom  for  three  years.  Them  other  post-office 
fellows  never  had  no  truck  with  Stanley  — 
never  so  much  as  heard  of  him.  Zurich 's  here. 
He  had  the  disposition,  the  motive,  the  oppor 
tunity,  and  the  habit.  Besides,  he  sold  you  a 
shoddy  coat  once.  Forgotten  that?'" 

Pete  paused  to  glower  over  that  coat;  and 
young  Mitchell,  big-eyed  and  gasping,  seized 
the  chance  to  put  in  a  word: 

"You're  an  ingenious  old  nightmare,  pard- 
ner  —  you  almost  make  it  convincing.  But 
Great  Scott,  man!  Can't  you  see  that  your 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  67 

fine,  plausible  theory  is  all  built  on  surmise  and 
wild  conjecture?  You  have  n't  got  a  leg  to 
stand  on  —  not  one  single  fact!" 

"  Whilst  I  was  first  a-constructing  this  in 
genious  theory  your  objection  might  have  car 
ried  force;  for  I  did  n't  have  a  fact  to  stand 
on,  as  you  observe.  I  conjectured  round  pretty 
spry,  too.  Reckon  it  took  me  all  of  half  a 
second  —  while  them  two  warriors  was  giving 
me  the  evil  eye.  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  was."  He 
related  the  story  of  the  shooting  match  and 
the  lost  bet.  "And  to  this  unprovoked  de 
sign  against  an  inoffensive  stranger  I  fitted  the 
only  possible  meaning  and  shape  that  would 
make  a  lick  of  sense,  dovetailin'  in  with  the 
real  honest-to-goodness  facts  I  already  knew." 

"But  don't  you  see,  old  thing,  you're  still 
up  in  the  air?  Your  theory  does  n't  touch 
ground  anywhere." 

"Stanley  —  my  poor  deluded  boy!  —  when 
I  got  to  the  railroad  I  wired  that  assayer  right 
off.  Our  samples  never  reached  El  Paso.  So  I 


68  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

wrote  out  my  fake  location  and  filed  it.  See 
what  followed  that  filing  —  over  yonder?  I 
come  this  way  on  purpose,  expecting  to  see 
those  fires,  Stanley.  If  they  had  n't  been  there, 
we'd  have  gone  on  to  our  mine.  Now  we'll 
go  anywhere  else." 

"Well,  I'll  just  be  teetotally  damned!"  Stan 
ley  remarked  with  great  fervor. 

"Trickling  into  your  thick  skull,  is  it?  Son, 
get  a  piece  of  charcoal.  Now  you  make  black 
marks  on  that  white  rock  as  I  tell  you,  to  hold 
down  my  statements  so  they  don't  flutter 
away  with  the  wind.  Ready?  Number  One: 
Our  copper  samples  did  n't  reach  the  assay er 

—  make  a  long  black  mark.  .  .  .  Therefore  — 
make  a  short  black  mark.  .  .  .  Number  Two: 
Either  Old  Pete's  crazy  theory  is  correct  in 
every  particular  —  a  long  black  mark.  ...  Or 

—  now  a  short  black  mark.  .  .  .  Number  Three: 
The  assayer  has  thrown  us  down  —  a  long 
black  mark.  .  .  .  Number  Four:  Which  would 
be  just  as  bad  —  make  a  long  black  mark." 


CHAPTER  IV 

STANLEY   MITCHELL   looked   hard   at 
the  long  black  mark;  he  looked  out  along 
the  south  to  the  low  line  of  the  Gavilan  Hills; 
he  looked  at  the  red  arc  of  sun  peering  sud 
denly  over  the  Comobabi  Range. 

" Well  —  and  so  forth!"  he  said.  "Here  is 
a  burn  from  the  branding!  And  what  are  we 
going  to  do  now?" 

"Wash  the  dishes.   You  do  it." 
'*  "You  are  a  light-minded  and  frivolous  old 
man,"  said  Stan.    "What  are  we  going  to  do 
about  our  mine?" 

"I've  done  told  you.  We  —  per  you  — 
are  due  to  wash  up  the  dishes.  Do  the  next 
thing  next.  That 's  a  pretty  good  rule.  Mean 
time  I  will  superintend  and  smoke  and  reflect." 

"Do  your  reflecting  out  loud,  can't  you?" 
said  Stan.  His  smooth  forehead  wrinkled  and 
a  sudden  cleft  appeared  between  his  eyebrows, 


70     COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

witness  of  an  unaccustomed  intentness  of 
thought.  "Say,  Pete;  this  partnership  of  ours 
is  n't  on  the  level.  You  put  in  half  the  work  and 
all  the  brains." 

"'Sail  right/'  said  Pete  Johnson.  "You 
furnish  the  luck  and  personal  pulchritude. 
That  ain't  all,  either.  I  'm  pickin'  up  some 
considerable  education  from  you,  learning  how 
to  pronounce  words  like  that  —  pulchritude. 
I  mispronounced  dreadful,  I  reckon." 

"I  can  tell  you  how  to  not  mispronounce 
half  as  many  words  as  you  do  now,"  said  Stan. 

"How's  that?"  said  Pete,  greatly  interested. 

"Only  talk  half  so  much." 

"Fair  enough,  kid!  It  would  work,  too. 
That  ain't  all,  either.  If  I  talked  less  you'd 
talk  more;  and,  talking  more,  you'd  study  out 
for  yourself  a  lot  of  the  things  I  tell  you  now, 
gettin'  credit  from  you  for  much  wisdom,  just 
because  I  hold  the  floor.  Go  to  it,  boy!  Tell 
us  how  the  affairs  of  We,  Us  &  Company  size 
up  to  you  at  this  juncture." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  71 

"Here  goes,"  said  Stan.  "First,  we  don't 
want  to  let  on  that  we've  got  anything  at  all 
on  our  minds  —  much  less  a  rich  mine.  After 
a  reasonable  time  we  should  make  some  casual 
mention  of  discontent  that  we ' ve  sent  off  rock 
to  an  assay er  and  not  heard  from  it.  Not  to 
say  a  word  would  make  our  conspirators  more 
suspicious;  a  careless  mention  of  it  might 
make  them  think  our  find  was  n't  such-a- 
much,  after  all.  Say!  I  suppose  it  would  n't  do 
to  pick  up  a  collection  of  samples  from  the 
best  mines  round  Cobre  —  and  inquire  round 
who  to  write  to  for  some  more,  from  Jerome 
and  Cananea,  maybe;  and  then,  after  talking 
them  up  a  while,  we  could  send  one  of  these 
samples  off  to  be  assayed,  just  for  curiosity  — 
what?" 

"Bear  looking  into,"  said  Pete;  "though  I 
think  they  'd  size  it  up  as  an  attempt  to  throw 
'em  off  the  trail.  Maybe  we  can  smooth  that 
idea  out  so  we  can  do  something  with  it.  Pro 
ceed." 


72  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Then  we'll  have  to  play  up  to  that  loca 
tion  you  filed  by  hiking  to  the  Gavilan  and 
going  through  the  motions  of  doing  assessment 
work  on  that  dinky  little  claim." 

Feeling  his  way,  Stan  watched  the  older 
man's  eyes.  Pete  nodded  approval. 

"But,  Pete,  are  n't  we  taking  a  big  chance 
that  some  one  will  find  our  claim?  It  is  n't  re 
corded,  -and  our  notice  will  run  out  unless  we 
do  some  assessment  work  pretty  quick.  Sup 
pose  some  one  should  stumble  onto  it?" 

"Well,  we've  got  to  take  the  chance,"  said 
Pete.  "And  the  chance  of  some  one  stumbling 
on  our  find  by  blind  luck,  like  we  did,  is  n't  a 
drop  in  the  bucket  to  the  chance  that  we  '11  be 
followed  if  we  try  to  slip  away  while  these 
fellows  are  worked  up  with  the  fever.  Seventy- 
five  thousand  round  dollars  to  one  canceled 
stamp  that  some  one  has  his  eye  glued  on 
us  through  a  telescope  right  this  very  now! 
I  would  n't  bet  the  postage  stamp  on  it,  at 
that  odds.  No,  sir!  Right  now  things  shape 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  73 

up  hotter  than  the  seven  low  places  in  hell. 

"If  we  go  to  the  mine  now  —  or  soon  — 
we'll  never  get  back.  After  we  show  them  the 
place  —  adios  el  mundo!" 

"'Surely. in  vain  the  net  is  spread  in  the 
sight  of  any  bird/  "  Mitchell  quoted  soberly. 
"So  you  think  that  after  a  while,  when  their 
enthusiasm  dies  down,  we  can  give  them  the 
slip?" 

"Sure!   It's  our  only  chance. " 

"Could  n't  we  make  a  get-away  at  night?" 

"It  is  what  they  are  hoping  for.  They'd 
follow  our  tracks.  No,  sir!  We  do  nothing. 
We  notice  nothing,  we  suspect  nothing,  and 
we  have  nothing  to  hide." 

"You  want  to  remember  that  our  location 
notice  will  be  running  out  pretty  soon." 

"We'll  have  to  risk  it.  Not  so  much  of  a 
risk,  either.  Cobre  is  the  last  outpost  of  civ 
ilization.  South  of  here,  in  the  whole  strip 
from  Comobabi  to  the  Colorado  River,  there's 
not  twenty  men,  all  told,  between  here  and 


74  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

the  Mexican  border  —  except  yonder  deluded 
wretches  in  the  Gavilan;  and  none  beyond  the 
border  for  a  hundred  miles." 

"It  is  certainly  one  big  lonesome  needle-in- 
the-haystack  proposition  —  and  no  one  has 
any  idea  where  our  find  is,  not  within  three 
days'  ride.  But  what  puzzles  me  is  this:  If 
Zurich  really  got  wise  to  our  copper,  he'd 
know  at  once  that  it  was  a  big  thing,  if  there 
was  any  amount  of  it.  Then  why  did  n't  he 
keep  it  private  and  confidential?  Why  tip  it 
off  to  the  G.  P.?  I  have  always  understood 
that  in  robbery  and  murder,  one  is  assisted 
only  by  intimate  friends.  What  is  the  large 
idea?" 

"That,  I  take  it,"  laughed  Pete,  "is,  in 
some  part,  an  acknowledgment  that  it  does  n't 
take  many  like  you  and  me  to  make  a  dozen. 
You ' ve  made  one  or  two  breaks  and  got  away 
with  'em,  the  last  year  or  two,  that  has  got  'em 
guessing ;  and  I  'm  well  and  loudly  known  my 
self.  There  is  a  wise  old  saying  that  it 's  no  use 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  75 

sending  a  boy  to  mill.  They  figure  on  that, 
likely;  they  wanted  to  be  safe  and  sanitary. 
They  sized  it  up  that  to  dispatch  only  two  or 
three  men  to  adjust  such  an  affair  with  us 
would  be  in  no  way  respectful  or  segacious. 

"Also,  in  a  gang  of  crooks  like  that,  every 
one  is  always  pullin'  for  his  buddy.  That  ac 
counts  for  part  of  the  crowd  —  prudence  and  a 
far-reaching  spirit  of  brotherly  love.  For  the 
rest,  when  the  first  ten  or  six  made  packs  and 
started,  they  was  worked  up  and  oozing  ex 
citement  at  every  pore.  Then  some  of  the  old 
prospectors  got  a  hunch  there  was  something 
doing;  so  they  just  naturally  up  stakes  and 
tagged  along.  Always  doing  that,  old  miner  is. 
That's  what  makes  the  rushes  and  stampedes 
you  hear  about." 

"Then  we're  to  do  nothing  just  now  but  to 
shun  mind-readers,  write  no  letters,  and  not 
talk  in  our  sleep?" 

"Just  so,"  agreed  Pete.  "  If  my  saddle  could 
talk,  I'd  burn  it.  That's  our  best  lay.  We'll 


76  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

tire  'em  out.  The  most  weariest  thing  in  the 
world  is  to  hunt  for  a  man  that  is  n't  there; 
the  next  worst  is  to  watch  a  man  that  has 
nothing  to  conceal.  And  our  little  old  million- 
dollar-a-rod  hill  is  the  unlikeliest  place  to  look 
for  a  mine  I  ever  did  see.  Just  plain  dirt  and 
sand.  No  indications;  just  a  plain  freak.  I'd 
sooner  take  a  chance  in  the  pasture  lot  behind 
pa's  red  barn  —  any  one  would.  We  covered 
up  all  the  scratchin'  we  did  and  the  wind  has 
done  the  rest.  Here  —  you  was  to  do  the 
talkin'.  Goon." 

"What  we  really  need,"  declared  Mitchell, 
"is  an  army  —  enough  absolutely  trustworthy 
and  reliable  men  to  overmatch  any  interfer 


ence." 


"The  largest  number  of  honest  men  that  was 
ever  got  together  in  one  bunch,"  said  Pete, 
"was  just  an  even  eleven.  Judas  Iscariot  was 
the  twelfth.  That's  the  record.  For  that  rea 
son  I  've  always  stuck  it  out  that  we  ought 
to  have  only  ten  men  on  a  jury,  instead  of 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  77 

twelve.  It  seems  more  modest,  somehow.  But 
suppose  we  found  ten  honest  men  somewheres. 
It  might  be  done.  I  know  where  there's  two 
right  here  in  Arizona,  and  I  've  got  my  suspi 
cions  of  a  third  —  honest  about  portable  prop 
erty,  that  is.  With  cattle,  and  the  like,  they 
don't  have  any  hard-and-fast  rule;  just  con 
sider  each  case  on  its  individual  merits.  How 
the  case  of  automobiles  would  strike  them 
elder  ethics  is  one  dubious  problem.  Standing 
still,  or  bein'  towed,  so  it  might  be  considered 
as  a  wagon,  a  car  would  be  safe  enough;  but 
proceedin'  from  hither  to  yon  under  its  own 
power  —  I  dunno.  I  '11  make  a  note  of  it.  Well, 
you  get  the  right  idea  for  the  first  thing.  Hon 
est  men  wanted;  no  questions  asked.  And  then 
what?" 

"Money." 

"You've  said  it,  kid!  We  could  quitclaim 
that  hill  for  a  million  cash  to-morrow —  " 

"If  we  had  any  claim  to  quit,"  interrupted 
Stanley;  "and  if  we  could  drag  capital  out  here 
and  rub  its  nose  in  our  hill." 


78  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"That's  the  word  I  was  feelin'  for  —  cap 
ital.  It 's  capital  we  want,  Stanley  —  not 
money.  I  could  get  a  little  money  myself  down 
at  Tucson.  Them  two  honest  men  of  mine  live 
there.  We  used  to  steal  cattle  together  down 
on  the  Concho  —  the  sheriff  and  Jose  Bena- 
vides  and  me.  I  aim  to  feed  'em  a  slice  of  my 
share,  anyway  —  but  what  they  could  put  in 
would  n't  be  a  drop  in  the  bucket.  We  want  to 
go  after  capital.  There's  where  you  come  in. 
Got  any  rich  friends  back  East?" 

Stan  reflected. 

"My  cousin,  Oscar  Mitchell,  is  well-to-do, 
but  hardly  what  you  would  call  rich,  in  this 
connection,"  he  said.  "But  he  is  in  touch 
with  some  of  the  really  big  men.  We  could 
hardly  find  a  better  agent  to  interest  capital." 

"Will  he  take  the  first  steps  on  your  bare 
word  —  without  even  a  sample  or  an  assayer's 
report?" 

"Certainly.   Why  not?" 

"Back  you  go,   then.    Here's  where  you 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  79 

come  in.  I  had  this  in  mind,"  declared  John 
son,  "when  I  first  throwed  in  with  you.  I 
knew  we  could  find  the  mine  and  you'd  be 
needed  for  bait  to  attract  capital.  I  rustled  a 
little  expense  money  at  Tucson.  Say,  I  did  n't 
tell  you  about  that.  Listen!" 

He  recited  at  length  his  joyous  financial  ad 
ventures  in  Tucson. 

"But  won't  your  man  Marsh  tell  Zurich 
about  your  unruly  behavior?"  said  Stan  at  the 
finish. 

"  I  think  not.  He's  got  too  much  to  lose.  I 
put  the  fear  of  God  in  his  heart  for  fair.  I 
could  n't  afford  to  have  him  put  Zurich  on  his 
guard.  It  won't  do  to  underestimate  Zurich. 
The  man's  a  crook;  but  he's  got  brains.  He 
has  n't  overlooked  a  bet  since  he  came  here. 
Zurich  is  Cobre  —  or  mighty  near  it.  He 's  in 
on  all  the  good  things.  Big  share  in  the  big 
mines,  little  share  in  the  little  ones.  He's  got 
all  the  water  supply  grabbed  and  is  makin'  a 
fortune  from  that  alone.  He  runs  the  store, 


8o  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

the  post-office,  and  the  stage  line.  He 's  got  the 
freight  contracts  and  the  beef  contracts.  He 's 
got  brains.  Only  one  weak  point  about  him  — 
he'll  underestimate  us.  We  got  brains  too. 
Zurich  knows  that,  but  he  don't  quite  believe 
it.  That's  our  chance." 

"Just  what  will  you  ask  my  cousin  to  do? 
And  when  shall  I  go?" 

"Day  before  to-morrow.  You  hike  back  to 
Cobre  and  hit  the  road  for  all  points  East. 
I  '11  go  over  to  the  Gavilan  to  be  counted  — • 
take  this  dynamite  and  stuff,  and  make  a  bluff 
at  workin',  keeping  my  ears  open  and  my 
mouth  not.  Pledge  cousin  to  come  see  when 
we  wire  for  him  —  as  soon  as  we  get  possession. 
If  he  finds  the  sight  satisfactory,  we'll  organize 
a  company,  you  and  me  keepin'  control.  We'll 
give  'em  forty  per  cent  for  a  million  cash  in  the 
treasury.  I  want  nine  per  cent  for  my  Tucson 
friends,  who'll  put  up  a  little  preliminary  cash 
and  help  us  with  the  first  fightin',  if  any. 
Make  your  dicker  on  that  basis;  take  no  less. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  8 1 

If  your  cousin  can't  swing  it,  we'll  go  else 
where. 

"Tell  him  our  proposition  would  be  a  gra 
cious  gift  at  two  millions,  undeveloped;  but 
we  're  not  selling.  Tell  him  there  '11  be  a  million 
needed  for  development  before  there'll  be  a 
dollar  of  return.  There 's  no  water;  just  enough 
to  do  assessment  work  on,  and  that  to  be 
hauled  twenty-five  miles  from  those  little  rock 
tanks  at  Cabeza  Prieta.  Deep  drillin'  may  get 
water  —  I  hope  so.  But  that  will  take  time 
and  money.  There  '11  have  to  be  a  seventy-five- 
mile  spur  of  railroad  built,  anyway,  leaving 
the  main  line  somewhere  about  Mohawk:  we'd 
just  as  well  count  on  hauling  water  from  the 
Gila  the  first  year.  Them  tanks  will  about 
run  a  ten-man  gang  a  month  after  each  rain, 
countin'  in  the  team  that  does  the  hauling. 

"Tell  him  one  claim,  six  hundred  feet  by 
fifteen  hundred,  will  pretty  near  cover  our  hill; 
but  we  '11  stake  two  for  margin.  We  don't  want 
any  more;  but  we'll  have  to  locate  a  town  site 


82  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

or  something,  to  be  sure  of  our  right  of  way  for 
our  railroad.  Every  foot  of  these  hills  will  be 
staked  out  by  some  one,  eventually.  If  any 
of  these  outside  claims  turns  out  to  be  any 
good,  so  much  the  better.  But  there  can't  be 
the  usual  rush  very  well  —  'cause  there  ain't 
enough  water.  We'll  have  to  locate  the  tanks 
and  keep  a  guard  there;  we'll  have  to  pull  off  a 
franchise  for  our  little  jerkwater  railroad. 

"We  got  to  build  a  wagon  road  to  Mohawk, 
set  six-horse  teams  to  hauling  water,  and  other 
teams  to  hauling  water  to  stations  along  the 
road  for  the  teams  that  haul  water  for  us.  All 
this  at  once;  it's  going  to  be  some  complicated. 

"That's  the  lay:  Development  work;  appro 
priation  for  honest  men  in  the  first  camp;  an 
other  for  lawyers;  patentin'  three  claims;  haul 
water  seventy-five  miles,  no  road,  and  part  of 
that  through  sand;  minin'  machinery;  build  a 
railroad ;  smelter,  maybe  —  if  some  one  would 
kindly  find  coal. 

"We  want  a  minimum  of  five  hundred  thou- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  83 

sand;  as  much  more  for  accidents.  Where  does 
this  cousin  of  yours  live?   In  Abingdon?" 

"In  Vesper  —  seven  miles  from  Abingdon. 
He's  a  lawyer.'* 

"Is  he  all  right?" 

"Why,  yes  —  I  guess  so.  When  I  was  a  boy 
I  thought  he  was  a  wonderful  chap  —  rather 
made  a  hero  of  him." 

"When  you  was  a  boy?"  echoed  Johnson; 
a  quizzical  twinkle  assisted  the  query. 

"Oh,  well  —  when  he  was  a  boy." 

"He's  older  than  you,  then?" 

"Nearly  twice  as  old.  My  father  was  the 
youngest  son  of  an  old-fashioned  family,  and 
I  was  his  youngest.  Uncle  Roy  —  Oscar's  fa 
ther —  was  dad's  oldest  brother,  and  Oscar 
was  a  first  and  only." 

Pete  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  sorry  about  that,  too.  I'd  be  better 
pleased  if  he  was  round  your  age.  No  offense 
to  you,  Stan;  but  I'd  name  no  places  to  your 
cousin  if  I  were  you.  When  we  get  legal  pos- 


84  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

session  let  him  come  out  and  see  for  himself  — 
leadin'  a  capitalist,  if  possible." 

"Oscar's  all  right,  I  guess,"  protested  Stan. 

"But  you  can't  do  more  than  guess?  Name 
him  no  names,  then.  I  wish  he  was  younger," 
said  Peter  with  a  melancholy  expression.  "  The 
world  has  a  foolish  old  saying:  'The  good  die 
young/  That's  all  wrong,  Stanley.  It  isn't 
true.  The  young  die  good!" 


CHAPTER  V 

QOMETHING  DEWING,  owner  of  Cobre's 
kJ  Emporium  of  Chance,  sat  in  his  room  in 
the  Admiral  Dewey  Hotel.  It  was  a  large  and 
pleasant  room,  refitted  and  over-furnished  by 
Mr.  Dewing  at  the  expense  of  his  fellow  towns 
men,  grateful  or  otherwise.  It  is  well  to  men 
tion  here  that,  upon  the  tongues  of  the  scurrile, 
''Something,"  as  a  praise-name  and  over-name 
for  Mr.  Dewing,  suffered  a  sea  change  to  "Sure- 
thing" —  Surething  Dewing;  just  as  the  Ad 
miral  Dewey  Hotel  was  less  favorably  known 
as  "Stagger  Inn." 

Mr.  Dewing's  eye  rested  dreamily  upon  the 
picture,  much  praised  of  connoisseurs,  framed 
by  his  window  —  the  sharp  encircling  con 
tours  of  Cobre  Mountain;  the  wedge  of  tawny 
desert  beyond  Farewell  Gap.  Rousing  him 
self  from  such  contemplation,  he  broke  a  si 
lence,  sour  and  unduly  prolonged. 


86  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Four  o'clock,  and  all's  ill!  Johnson  is  not 
the  man  to  be  cheated  out  of  a  fortune  without 
putting  up  a  fight.  Young  Mitchell  himself  is 
neither  fool  nor  weakling.  He  can  shoot,  too. 
We  have  had  no  news.  Therefore  —  a  conclu 
sion  that  will  not  have  escaped  your  sagacity  — 
something  has  gone  amiss  with  our  little  expe 
ditionary  force  in  the  Gavilan.  Johnson  is 
quite  the  Paladin;  but  he  could  hardly  exter 
minate  such  a  bunch  as  that.  It  is  my  firm 
conviction  that  we  are  now,  on  this  pleasant 
afternoon,  double-crossed  in  a  good  and  work 
manlike  manner. 

"The  Johnson-Mitchell  firm  is  now  Johnson, 
Mitchell  &  Company,  our  late  friends,  or  the 
survivors,  being  the  Company." 

These  remarks  were  addressed  to  the  elder 
of  Mr.  Dewing's  two  table  mates.  But  it  was 
Eric  Anderson,  tall  and  lean  and  lowering,  who 
made  answer. 

uYou  may  set  your  uneasy  mind  at  rest, 
Mr.  Something.  Suspectin'  treachery  comes 
natural  to  you  —  being  what  you  are." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  87 

" There  —  that's  enough !" 

This  was  the  third  man,  Mayer  Zurich.  He 
sprang  up,  speaking  sharply;  a  tall,  straight 
man,  broad-shouldered,  well  proportioned, 
with  a  handsome,  sparkling,  high-colored  face. 
"Eric,  you  grow  more  insolent  every  day. 
Cut  it  out!" 

Mr.  Dewing,  evenly  enough,  shifted  his 
thoughtful  gaze  upon  tall  Eric,  seemingly  with 
out  resentment  for  the  outburst. 

"Well,  was  n't  he  insultin'  the  boys  then?" 
demanded  Eric. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  there,"  Mayer  Zurich 
admitted.  "  I  was  not  at  all  in  favor  of  taking  so 
many  of  them  in  on  this  proposition;  but  I'm 
not  afraid  of  them  doin'  me  dirt,  now  they're 
in.  I  don't  see  why  the  three  of  us  could  n't 
have  kept  this  to  ourselves  —  but  Something 
had  to  blab  it  out !  Why  he  should  do  that,  and 
then  distrust  the  very  men  he  chose  for  so 
munificent  a  sharing  of  a  confidence  better 
withheld  —  that  is  quite  beyond  my  under- 


88  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

standing.  Dewing,  you  would  never  have 
clapped  an  eye  on  that  nugget  if  I  had  sus 
pected  in  you  so  unswerving  a  loyalty  to  the 
gang.  I  confess  I  was  disappointed  in  you  — 
and  I  count  you  my  right-hand  man/1 

The  speech  of  the  educated  man,  in  Mr. 
Zurich,  was  overlaid  with  colloquialism  and 
strange  idiom,  made  a  second  tongue  by  long 
familiarity. 

"Your  left-hand  man!"  Dewing  made  the 
correction  with  great  composure.  "You  come 
to  me  to  help  you,  because,  though  you  claim 
all  the  discredit  for  your  left-handed  activi 
ties,  I  furnish  a  good  half  of  the  brains.  And  I 
blabbed  —  as  you  so  elegantly  phrased  it  — 
because  I  am  far  too  intelligent  to  bite  a  bull 
dog  for  a  bone.  Our  friends  in  the  Gavilan 
pride  themselves  on  their  nerve.  They  are 
fighting  men,  if  you  please  —  very  fearless  and 
gallant.  That  suits  me.  I  am  no  gentleman. 
Quite  the  contrary.  I  am  very  intelligent,  as 
aforesaid.  It  was  the  part  of  prudence  —  " 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  89 

"That  is  a  very  good  word  —  prudence." 
The  interpolation  came  from  tall  Eric. 

"A  very  good  word,"  assented  the  gambler, 
unmoved.  "It  was  the  part  of  prudence  to  let 
our  valiant  friends  and  servants  pull  these 
chestnuts  from  the  fire,  as  aforetime.  To  be 
come  the  corpse  of  a  copper  king  is  a  prospect 
that  holds  no  attractions  for  me/1 

"But  why  —  why  on  earth  —  did  you 
insist  on  employing  men  you  now  distrust? 
you  bewilder  me,  Dewing,"  declared  Zurich. 
"What's  the  idea  —  to  swindle  yourself?" 

"You  will  do  me  the  justice  to  remember," 
observed  Dewing  with  a  thin-lipped  smile, 
"that  I  urged  upon  you,  repeatedly  and  most 
strongly,  as  a  desirable  preliminary  to  our  oper 
ations,  to  remove  Mr.  Peter  Johnson  from  this 
unsatisfactory  world  without  any  formal  dec 
laration  of  war." 

"I  won't  do  it!"  declared  Zurich  bluntly. 
"And  —  damn  you  —  you  shan't  do  it!  He's 
a  dangerous  old  bowlegged  person,  and  I  wish 


90  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

he  was  farther.  And  I  must  admit  that  I  am 
myself  most  undesirous  for  any  personal  bicker 
ing  with  him.  To  hear  Jim  Scarboro  relate  it, 
old  Pete  is  one  wiz  with  a  six-gun.  All  the 
same,  I'll  not  let  him  be  shot  from  ambush. 
He 's  too  good  for  that.  I  draw  the  line  there. 
I'm  not  exactly  afraid  of  the  little  old  wasp, 
either,  when  it  comes  down  to  cases;  but  I  have 
great  respect  for  him.  I  '11  never  agree  to  meet 
him  on  a  tight  rope  over  Niagara  and  make 
him  turn  back;  and  if  I  have  any  trouble  with 
him  he's  got  to  bring  it  to  me.  You  have  no 
monopoly  of  prudence." 

"There  it  is,  you  see!"  Something  Dewing 
spread  out  his  fine  hands.  "  You  made  no  al 
lowance  for  my  loyalty  and  I  made  none  for 
your  scruples.  As  a  result,  Mr.  Johnson  has 
established  a  stalemate,  held  a  parley,  and 
bought  off  our  warriors.  They  Ve  been  taken 
in  on  the  copper  find,  on  some  small  sharing, 
while  we,  in  quite  another  sense  of  the  word, 
are  simply  taken  in.  Such,"  observed  Mr. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  91 

Dewing  philosophically,  "is  the  result  of  in 
opportune  virtues." 

"Bosh!  I  told  you  all  along,"  said  Anderson 
heavily,  "that  there's  no  mineral  in  the  Gavi- 
lan.  I  've  been  over  every  foot  of  it  —  and  I  'm 
a  miner.  We  get  no  news  because  no  man 
makes  haste  to  announce  his  folly.  You  '11  see ! " 

"Creede  and  Cripple  Creek  had  been  pros 
pected  over  and  over  again  before  they  struck 
it  there,"  objected  Zurich. 

"Silver  and  gold!"  retorted  Eric  scornfully. 
11  This  is  copper.  Copper  advertises.  No,  sir! 
I  '11  tell  you  what 's  happened.  There 's  been  no 
battle,  and  no  treachery,  and  no  mine  found. 
We've  been  trapped.  That  Gavilan  location 
was  a  fake,  stuck  up  to  draw  our  fire.  We've 
tipped  our  hand.  Mr.  Johnson  can  now  exam 
ine  the  plans  of  mice  or  men  that  your  com 
bined  sagacities  have  so  obligingly  placed  face 
upward  before  him,  and  decide  his  policies  at 
his  leisure.  If  I  were  in  his  shoes,  this  is  what  I 
would  be  at :  I  'd  tell  my  wondrous  tale  to  big 


92  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

money.  And  then  I  would  employ  very  many 
stranger  men  accustomed  to  arms;  and  when 
I  went  after  that  mine,  I  would  place  under 
guard  any  reasonable  and  obliging  travelers  I 
met,  and  establish  a  graveyard  for  the  head 
strong.  And  that's  what  Johnson  will  do. 
He'll  go  to  the  Coast  for  capital,  at  the  same 
time  sendin'  young  Stanley  back  to  his  native 
East  on  the  same  errand." 

"  You  may  be  right,"  said  Zurich,  somewhat 
staggered.  "  If  you  are,  their  find  must  be  a 
second  Verde  or  Cananea,  or  they  would  never 
have  taken  a  precaution  so  extraordinary  as  a 
false  location.  What  on  earth  can  have  hap 
pened  to  rouse  their  suspicions  to  that  extent?  " 

"Man,  I  wonder  at  you!"  said  tall  Eric. 
"You  put  trust  in  your  brains,  your  money,  and 
your  standing  to  hold  you  unstained  by  all 
your  left-handed  business.  You  expect  no  man 
to  take  heed  of  you,  when  the  reek  of  it  smells 
to  high  heaven.  Well,  you  deceive  yourself 
the  more.  These  things  get  about;  and  they 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  93 

are  none  so  unobserving  a  people,  south  of 
the  Gila,  where  't  is  fair  life  or  death  to  them 
to  note  betweenwhiles  all  manner  of  small 
things  —  the  set  of  a  pack,  the  tongue  of  a 
buckle,  the  cleat  of  a  mine  ladder.  And  your 
persecution  of  young  Stanley,  now.  Was  you 
expectin'  that  to  go  unremarked?  'T  is  that 
has  made  Peter  Johnson  shy  of  all  bait.  'T  was 
a  sorry  business  from  the  first  —  hazing  that 
boy;  I  take  shame  to  have  hand  in  it.  And  for 
every  thousand  of  that  dirty  money  we  now 
stand  to  lose  a  million. " 

"  T  was  a  piker's  game,"  sneered  Dewing. 
"Not  worth  the  trouble  and  risk.  We  had 
about  three  thousand  from  Zurich  to  split  be 
tween  us;  little  enough.  Of  course  Zurich  kept 
his  share,  the  lion's  share." 

"You  got  the  middleman's  chunk,  at  any 
rate,"  retorted  Zurich. 

"I  did  the  middleman's  work,"  said  the 
gambler  tranquilly.  "Now,  gentlemen,  we 
have  not  been  agreeing  very  well  of  late.  Eric, 


94  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

in  particular,  has  been  far  from  flattering  in 
his  estimates  of  my  social  and  civic  value.  We 
are  agreed  on  that?  Very  well.  I  may  have 
mentioned  my  intelligence?  And  that  I  rate  it 
highly?  Yes?  Very  well,  then.  I  shall  now 
demonstrate  that  my  self -appraisal  was  justi 
fied  by  admitting  that  my  judgment  on  this 
occasion  was  at  fault.  Eric's  theories  as  to  our 
delayed  news  from  our  expedition  are  sound; 
they  work  out;  they  prove  themselves.  The 
same  is  true  of  his  very  direct  and  lucid  state 
ment  as  to  the  nature  and  cause  of  the  diffi 
culties  which  now  beset  us.  I  now  make  the 
direct  appeal  to  you,  Eric:  As  a  candid  man  or 
mouse,  what  would  you  do  next?" 

Tall  Eric  bent  his  brows  darkly  at  the  gam 
bler. 

"If  you  mean  that  I  fear  the  man  Johnson 
at  all,  why  do  you  not  use  tongue  and  lips  to 
say  that  same?  I  am  not  greatly  chafed  by  an 
open  enemy,  but  I  am  no  great  hand  to  sit 
down  under  a  mock." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  95 

"It  was  your  own  word  —  the  mice,"  said 
Dewing.  "  But  this  time  you  take  me  wrongly. 
I  meant  no  mockery.  I  ask  you,  in  good  faith, 
for  your  opinion.  What  ought  to  be  done  to 
retrieve  the  false  step?" 

11  Could  we  find  this  treasure-trove  by  a 
painstaking  search  of  the  hills?"  asked  Zurich 
doubtfully.  "It's  a  biggish  country." 

"Man,"  said  Eric,  "I've  prospected  out 
there  for  fifteen  years  and  I  Ve  scarce  made  a 
beginning.  If  we're  to  find  Johnson's  strike 
before  Johnson  makes  a  path  to  it,  we  have  a 
month,  at  most.  Find  it,  says  you?  Sure,  we 
might  find  it.  But  if  we  do  it  will  be  by  blind 
fool-hog  luck  and  not  by  painstakin'  search. 
Do  you  search,  if  you  like.  My  word  would  be 
to  try  negotiations.  Make  a  compromise  with 
Johnson.  And  if  your  prudence  does  not  like 
the  errand,  I  will  even  take  it  upon  myself." 

"What  is  there  to  compromise?  We  have 
nothing  to  contribute." 

"We  have  safety  to  sell,"  said  Eric.   "Seek 


96  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

out  the  man  and  state  the  case  baldly:  'Sir, we 
have  protection  to  sell,  without  which  your 
knowledge  is  worthless,  or  near  it.  Protection 
from  ourselves  and  all  others.  Make  treaty 
with  us;  allot  to  us,  jointly,  some  share,  which 
you  shall  name  yourself,  and  we  will  deal 
justly  by  you.  So  shall  you  avoid  delay.  You 
may  avoid  some  risk.  Quien  sabe?  If  you  re 
fuse  we  shall  truly  endeavor  to  be  interestin' ; 
and  you  may  get  nothing.'  That's  what  I 
would  say.19 

"  A  share,  to  be  named  by  Johnson  and  then 
be  divided  between  ten?  Well,  I  guess  not!" 
declared  Zurich.  "To  begin  with,  we'll  find  a 
way  to  stop  Kid  Mitchell  from  any  Eastern 
trip.  Capital  is  shy;  I'm  not  much  afraid  of 
what  Johnson  can  do.  But  this  boy  has  the 
inside  track."  ' 

"With  my  usual  astuteness,"  remarked 
Something  Dewing,  "I  had  divined  as  much. 
And  there  is  another  string  to  our  bow  if  we 
make  a  complete  failure  of  this  mine  business 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  97 

—  as  would  seem  to  be  promised  by  the 
Gavilan  fiasco.  When  such  goodly  sums  are 
expended  to  procure  the  downfall  of  Kid 
Mitchell  —  an  event  as  yet  unexpectedly  de 
layed —  there's  money  in  it  somewhere.  Big 
money !  I  know  it.  And  I  mean  to  touch  some 
of  it.  My  unknown  benefactor  shall  have  my 
every  assistance  to  attain  his  hellish  purpose  — 
hellish  purpose,  I  believe,  is  the  phrase  proper 
to  the  complexion  of  this  affair.  Then,  to  use 
the  words  of  the  impulsive  Hotspur,  slightly 
altered  to  suit  the  occasion,  I'll  creep  upon 
him  while  he  lies  asleep,  and  in  his  ear  I'll 
whisper  —  Snooks ! " 

"You  don't  know  where  he  lives/1  said 
Zurich. 

"Ah,  but  you  do!  I  beg  your  pardon,  Zu 
rich  —  perhaps  in  my  thoughtlessness  I  have 
wounded  you.  I  used  the  wrong  pronoun.  I 
did  not  mean  to  say  '  I '  —  much  less  '  you '  — • 
in  reference  to  who  should  hollo  'Halves!'  to 
our  sleeping  benefactor.  'We'  was  the  word  I 
should  have  used." 


98  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Zurich  regarded  Mr.  Dewing  in  darkling 
silence;  and  that  gentleman,  in  noway  daunted, 
continued  gayly: 

"I  see  that  the  same  idea  has  shadowed  it 
self  to  you.  You  must  consider  us  —  Eric  and 
I  —  equals  in  that  enterprise,  friend  Mayer. 
Three  good  friends  together.  I  begin  to  fear 
we  have  sadly  underestimated  Eric — you  and 
I.  By  our  own  admission  —  and  his  —  he  is 
a  better  fighting  man  than  either  of  us.  You 
would  n't  want  to  displease  him." 

"I  think  you  go  about  it  in  an  ill  way  to 
remedy  a  mistake,  Dewing,"  said  Zurich. 
"Don't  let's  be  silly  enough  to  fall  out  over 
one  chance  gone  wrong.  We've  got  all  we  can 
attend  to  right  now,  without  such  a  folly  as 
that.  Don't  mind  him,  Eric.  Tell  me,  rather, 
what  we  are  going  to  do  about  this  troublesome 
Johnson?  Violence  is  out  of  the  question:  we 
need  him  to  show  us  where  he  found  that 
copper.  Besides,  it  isn't  safe  to  kill  old  Pete, 
and  it  never  has  been  safe  to  kill  old  Pete. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  99 

As  for  the  Kid,  I'll  do  what  I  have  been 
urged  to  do  this  long  time  by  the  personage 
who  takes  so  kindly  an  interest  in  his  fortunes 
—  I'll  railroad  him  off  to  jail,  at  least  till  we 
get  that  mine  or  until  it  is,  beyond  question, 
lost  to  us.  It  is  n't  wise  to  let  him  go  East;  he 
might  get  hold  of  unlimited  money.  If  he  did, 
forewarned  as  he  is  now,  Johnson  would  fix  it 
so  we  should  n't  have  a  look-in.  You  turn  this 
over  and  let  me  know  your  ideas." 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  said  Dewing  with 
smooth  insolence,  equally  maddening  {to  both 
hearers,  "that  Eric's  ideas  have  been  notably 
justified  of  late;  whereas  your  ideas  —  and 
mine  —  have  been  stupid  blunders  from  first 
to  last.  You  see  me  at  a  stand,  friend  Mayer, 
doubtful  if  it  were  not  the  part  of  wisdom  to 
transfer  my  obedience  to  Eric  hereafter." 

11  For  every  word  of  that,  Johnson  would  pay 
you  a  gold  piece,  and  have  a  rare  bargain  of  it." 
Zurich's  voice  was  hard;  his  eye  was  hard.  "  Is 
this  a  time  for  quarreling  among  ourselves? 


ioo          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

There  may  be  millions  at  stake,  for  all  we  know, 
and  you  would  set  us  at  loggerheads  in  a  fit  of 
spleen,  like  a  little  peevish  boy.  I  'm  ashamed  of 
you!  Get  your  horse  and  ride  off  the  sulks.  If 
you  feel  spiteful,  take  it  out  on  Johnson.  Get 
yourself  a  pack  outfit  and  go  find  his  mine.11 

"I'm  no  prospector,"  said  the  gambler  dis 
dainfully. 

"No.  I  will  tell  you  what  you  are."  Tall 
Eric  rose  and  towered  above  Dewing  at  the 
window;  the  sun  streamed  on  his  bright  hair, 
"You  are  a  crack-brained  fool  to  tempt  my 
hands  to  your  throat!  You  will  do  it  once  too 
often  yet.  You  a  prospector?  You  never  saw 
the  day  you  had  the  makin's  of  a  prospector  in 
you." 

"Let  other  men  do  the  work  and  take  the 
risk  while  I  take  the  gain,  and  it 's  little  I  care 
for  your  opinion,"  rejoined  Dewing.  "And 
you  would  do  well  to  keep  your  hands  from  my 
throat  when  my  hand  is  in  my  coat  pocket  — 
as  is  the  case  at  this  present  instant." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          101 

"This  thing  has  gone  far  enough,"  said 
Zurich.  "  Anderson,  come  back  and  sit  down. 
Dewing,  go  and  fork  that  horse  of  yours  and 
ride  the  black  devil  out  of  your  heart." 

"I  have  a  thing  to  say,  first/'  said  Eric. 
"  Dewing,  you  sought  to  begowk  me  by  setting 
me  up  against  Zurich  —  or  perhaps  you  really 
thought  to  use  me  against  him.  Well,  you 
won't!  When  we  want  the  information  about 
the  man  that  has  been  harryin' young  Mitchell, 
Zurich  will  tell  us.  We  know  too  much  about 
Zurich  for  him  to  deny  us  our  askings.  But, 
for  your  mock  at  me,  I  want  you  both  to  know 
two  things:  The  first  is,  I  desire  no  headship  for 
myself;  the  second  is  this  —  I  take  Zurich's  or 
ders  because  I  think  he  has  the  best  head,  as 
a  usual  thing;  and  I  follow  those  orders  ex 
actly  so  far  as  I  please,  and  no  step  more.  I 
am  mean  and  worthless  because  I  choose  to  be 
and  not  at  all  because  Mayer  Zurich  led  me 
astray.  Got  that,  now?" 

"If  you're  quite  through,"  said  Dewing, 
"I'll  take  that  ride." 


102  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

The  door  closed  behind  him. 

"Disappointed!  Had  his  mouth  fixed  for  a 
million  or  so,  and  did  n't  get  it;  could  n't  stand 
the  gaff;  made  him  ugly,"  said  Zurich  slowly. 
"And  when  Dewing  is  ugly  he  is  unbearable; 
absolutely  the  limit." 

"  Is  n't  he?  "  agreed  Eric  in  disgust.  "  Enough 
to  make  a  man  turn  honest. " 


CHAPTER  VI 

STANLEY  MITCHELL  topped  the  last 
rise  in  Morning  Gate  Pass  in  the  late  after 
noon.  Cobre  Basin  spread  deep  and  wide  be 
fore  him,  ruddy  in  the  low  sun;  Cobre  town 
and  mines,  on  his  left,  loomed  dim  and  mis 
shapen  in  the  long  dark  shadows  of  the  hills. 

Awguan,  top  horse  and  foreman  of  Stanley's 
mount,  swung  pitapat  down  the  winding  pass 
at  a  brisk  fox  trot.  The  gallop,  as  a  road  gait, 
is  frowned  upon  in  the  cow  countries  as  imma 
ture  and  wasteful  of  equine  energy. 

He  passed  Loder's  Folly,  high  above  the 
trail  —  gray,  windowless,  and  forlorn;  the  trail 
dipped  into  the  cool  shadows,  twisted  through 
the  mazy  deeps  of  Wait-a-Bit  Canon,  clam 
bered  zigzag  back  to  the  sunlit  slope,  and 
curved  round  the  hillsides  to  join,  in  long  levels, 
the  wood  roads  on  the  northern  slopes. 

As  he  turned  into  the  level,  Stanley's  mus- 


104          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

ings  were  broken  in  upon  by  a  sudden  prodi 
gious  clatter.  Looking  up,  he  became  aware 
of  a  terror,  rolling  portentous  down  the  flinty 
ridge  upon  him;  a  whirlwind  streak  of  billowed 
dust,  shod  with  sparks,  tipped  by  a  hurtling 
color  yet  unknown  to  man,  and  from  the 
whirlwind  issued  grievous  words. 

Awguan  leaped  forward. 

Bounding  over  boulders  or  from  them,  flash 
ing  through  catclaw  and  ocatillo,  the  appear 
ance  swooped  and  fell,  the  blend  disjoined  and 
shaped  to  semblance  of  a  very  small  red  pony 
bearing  a  very  small  blue  boy.  The  pony's 
small  red  head  was  quite  innocent  of  bridle; 
the  bit  was  against  his  red  breast,  held  there 
by  small  hands  desperate  on  the  reins;  the  torn 
headstall  flapped  rakishly  about  the  red  legs. 
Making  the  curve  at  sickening  speed,  balanced 
over  everlasting  nothingness  for  a  moment  of 
breathless  equipoise,  they  took  the  trail. 

Awguan  thundered  after.  Stanley  bent  over, 
pelted  by  flying  pebbles  and  fragments  of  idle 
words. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          105 

Small  chance  to  overhaul  the  prodigy  on 
that  ribbed  and  splintered  hill;  Awguan  held 
the  sidelong  trail  at  the  red  pony's  heels.  They 
dipped  to  cross  an  arroyo;  Stan  lifted  his  head 
and  shouted: 

"  Fall  off  in  the  sand!" 

"Damnfido!"  wailed  the  blue  boy. 

Sand  flashed  in  rainbow  arches  against 
Awguan's  brown  face  —  he  shut  his  eyes 
against  it;  they  turned  up  the  hill  beyond. 
A  little  space  ahead  showed  free  of  bush  or 
boulder.  Awguan  took  the  hillside  below  the 
trail,  lowered  his  head,  laid  his  ears  back,  and 
bunched  his  mighty  muscles.  He  drew  along 
side;  leaning  far  over,  heel  to  cantle,  Stan  threw 
his  arm  about  the  small  red  neck,  and  dragged 
the  red  pony  to  a  choking  stand.  The  small 
blue  boy  slipped  to  earth,  twisted  the  soft 
bridle  rein  once  and  again  to  a  miraculous 
double  half-hitch  about  the  red  pony's  jaw, 
and  tightened  it  with  a  jerk. 

" I  Ve  got  him!"  shrieked  the  blue  boy. 


106          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

The  red  pony  turned  mild  bright  eyes  upon 
brown  Awguan,  and  twitched  red  velvet  ears  to 
express  surprise,  and  wrinkled  a  polite  nose.  • 

''Hello!  I  had  n't  noticed  you  before.  Fine 
day,  is  n't  it?"  said  the  ears. 

Awguan  rolled  his  wicked  eye  and  snorted. 
The  blue  boy  shrilled  a  comment  of  surprising 
particulars  —  a  hatless  boy  in  denim.  Stanley 
turned  his  head  at  a  clatter  of  hoofs;  Some 
thing  Dewing,  on  the  trail  from  town,  galloped 
to  join  them. 

"That  was  a  creditable  arrest  you  made, 
Mitchell,"  he  said,  drawing  rein.  "I  saw  it 
all  from  the  top  of  Mule  Hill.  And  I  certainly 
thought  our  Little  Boy  Blue  was  going  to  take 
the  Big  Trip.  He '11  make  a  hand! " 

The  gambler's  eyes,  unguarded  and  sincere 
for  once,  flashed  quizzical  admiration  at  Little 
Boy  Blue,  who,  concurrently  with  the  above 
speech,  quavered  forth  his  lurid  personal  opin 
ions  of  the  red  pony.  He  was  a  lean,  large- 
eyed  person,  apparently  of  some  nine  or  ten 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  107 

years  - —  which  left  his  vocabulary  unac 
counted  for;  his  face  was  smeared  and  bleed 
ing,  scratched  by  catclaw;  his  apparel  much 
betattered  by  the  same  reason. 

He  now  checked  a  flood  of  biographical  de 
tail  concerning  the  red  pony  long  enough  to 
fling  a  remark  their  way: 

"Ain't  no  Boy  Blue  —  damn  your  soul! 
Name 's  Robteeleecarr ! ' ' 

Dewing  and  Mitchell  exchanged  glances. 

"What's  that?  What  did  he  say?" 

"He  means  to  inform  you,"  said  Dewing, 
"that  his  name  is  Robert  E.  Lee  Carr."  His 
glance  swept  appraisingly  up  the  farther  hill, 
and  he  chuckled:  "Old  Israel  Putnam  would 
be  green  with  envy  if  he  had  seen  that  ride. 
Some  boy!" 

"He  must  be  a  new  one  to  Cobre;  I  Ve  never 
seen  him  before." 

"Been  here  a  week  or  ten  days,  and  he's  a 
notorious  character  already.  So  is  Nan-na." 

"Nan-na,  I  gather,  being  the  pony?" 


io8          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

41  Exactly.  Little  Apache  devil,  that  horse 
is.  Robert's  dad,  one  Jackson  Carr,  is  going  to 
try  freighting.  He 's  camped  over  the  ridge  at 
Hospital  Springs,  letting  his  horses  feed  up  and 
get  some  meat  on  their  bones.  Here!  Robert 
E.  Lee,  drop  that  club  or  I  '11  put  the  dingbats 
on  you  instanter!  Don't  you  pound  that  pony! 
I  saw  you  yesterday  racing  the  streets  with  the 
throat-latch  of  your  bridle  unbuckled.  Serves 
you  right!" 

Robert  E.  Lee  reluctantly  abandoned  the 
sotol  stalk  he  had  been  breaking  to  a  length 
suitable  for  admonitory  purposes. 

"All  right!  But  I'll  fix  him  yet  — see  if  I 
don't!  He's  got  to  pack  me  back  up  that  hill 
after  my  hat.  Gimme  a  knife,  so's  I  can  cut 
a  saddle  string  and  mend  this  bridle."  These 
remarks  are  expurgated. 

He  mended  the  bridle;  he  loosened  the 
cinches  and  set  the  saddle  back.  Stan,  dis 
mounting,  made  a  discovery. 

"  I  've  lost  a  spur.   Thought  something  felt 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  109 

funny.  Noticed  yesterday  that  the  strap  was 
loose."  He  straightened  up  from  a  contempla 
tion  of  his  boot  heel;  with  a  sudden  thought, 
he  searched  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat. 
"And  that  is  n't  all.  By  George,  I've  lost  my 
pocketbook,  and  a  lot  of  money  in  it!  But  it 
can't  be  far;  I  've  lost  it  somewhere  on  my  boy 
chase.  Come  on,  Dewing;  help  me  hunt  for  it." 

They  left  the  boy  at  his  mending  and  took 
the  back  track.  Before  they  had  gone  a  dozen 
yards  Dewing  saw  the  lost  spur,  far  down  the 
hill,  lodged  under  a  prickly  pear.  Stanley, 
searching  intently  for  his  pocketbook,  did  not 
see  the  spur.  And  Dewing  said  nothing;  he 
lowered  his  eyelids  to  veil  a  sudden  evil 
thought,  and  when  he  raised  them  again  his 
eyes,  which  for  a  little  had  been  clear  of  all 
save  boyish  mischief,  were  once  more  tense  and 
hard. 

Robert  E.  Lee  Carr  clattered  gayly  by  them 
and  pushed  up  the  hill  to  recover  his  hat.  The 
two  men  rode  on  slowly;  a  brown  pocketbook 


I  io         COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

upon  a  brown  hillside  is  not  easy  to  find.  But 
they  found  it  at  last,  just  where  Stanley  had 
launched  his  pursuit  of  the  hatless  horseman. 
It  had  been  jostled  from  his  pocket  in  the  first 
wild  rush.  Stanley  retrieved  it  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"Are  you  sure  you  had  your  spur  here?" 
asked  Dewing.  "Maybe  you  lost  it  before  and 
did  n't  notice  it." 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  spur,"  said  Stan.  " I'm 
satisfied  to  get  my  money.  Let's  wait  for 
Little  Boy  Blue  and  we'll  all  go  in  together." 

"Want  to  try  a  little  game  to-night?"  sug 
gested  Dewing.  "I  could  use  that  money  of 
yours.  It  seems  a  likely  bunch  —  if  it's  all 
money.  Pretty  plump  wallet,  I  call  it." 

"No  more  for  me,"  laughed  Stanley.  "You 
behold  in  me  a  reformed  character." 

"Stick  to  that,  boy,"  said  Dewing.  "Gam 
bling  is  bad  business." 

It  grew  on  to  dusk  when  Robert  E.  Lee  Carr 
rejoined  them;  it  was  pitch  dark  when  they 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          in 

came  to  the  Carr  camp-fire  at  Hospital  Springs, 
close  beside  the  trail ;  when  they  reached  Cobre, 
supper-time  was  over. 

At  the  Mountain  House  Stanley  ordered  a 
special  supper  cooked  for  him,  with  real  po 
tatoes  and  cow  milk.  Dewing  refused  a  drink, 
pleading  his  profession;  and  Stanley  left  his  fat 
wallet  in  the  Mountain  House  safe. 

"Well,  I'll  say  good-night  now,"  said  Dew 
ing.  "See  you  after  supper? " 

"Oh,  I'll  side  you  a  ways  yet.  Coin'  up  to 
the  shack  to  unsaddle.  Always  like  to  have  my 
horse  eat  before  I  do.  And  you  '11  not  see  me 
after  supper  —  not  unless  you  are  up  at  the 
post-office.  I'm  done  with  cards." 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  little  chin  with  you  to 
morrow,"  said  Dewing.  "Not  about  cards. 
Business.  I  'm  sick  of  cards,  myself.  I  '11  never 
be  able  to  live  'em  down  —  especially  with 
this  pleasing  nickname  of  mine.  I  want  to 
talk  trade.  About  your  ranch :  you  Ve  still  got 
your  wells  and  water- holes?  I  was  thinking  of 


112          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

buying  them  of  you  and  going  in  for  the  straight 
and  narrow.  I  might  even  stock  up  and  throw 
in  with  you  —  but  you  would  n't  want  a  part 
ner  from  the  wrong  side  of  the  table?  Well,  I 
don't  blame  you  —  but  say,  Stan,  on  the  level, 
it's  a  funny  old  world,  is  n't  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  take  the  stage  to-morrow. 
See  you  when  I  come  back.  I  '11  sell.  I  'm  re 
formed  about  cattle,  too,"  said  Stan. 

At  the  ball  ground  he  bade  Dewing  good 
night.  The  latter  rode  on  to  his  own  hostelry 
at  the  other  end  of  town.  Civilization  patron 
ized  the  Admiral  Dewey  as  nearest  the  rail 
road;  mountain  men  favored  the  Mountain 
House  as  being  nearest  to  grass. 

Stanley  turned  up  a  side  street  to  the  one- 
roomed  adobe  house  on  the  edge  of  town  that 
served  as  city  headquarters  for  himself  and 
Johnson.  He  unsaddled  in  the  little  corral; 
he  brought  a  feed  of  corn  for  brown  Awguan ; 
he  brought  currycomb  and  brush  and  made 
glossy  Awguan's  sleek  sides,  turning  him  loose 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          113 

at  last,  with  a  friendly  slap,  to  seek  pasture  on 
Cobre  Hills.  Then  he  returned  to  the  Moun 
tain  House  for  the  delayed  supper. 

Meantime  Mr.  Something  Dewing  held  a 
hurried  consultation  with  Mr.  Mayer  Zurich; 
and  forthwith  took  horse  again  for  Morning 
Gate  Pass,  slipping  by  dark  streets  from  the 
town,  turning  aside  to  pass  Hospital  Springs. 
Where  the  arrest  of  the  red  pony  had  been 
effected,  Dewing  dismounted;  below  the  trail, 
a  dozen  yards  away,  he  fished  Mr.  Stanley 
Mitchell's  spur  from  under  a  prickly  pear;  and 
returned  in  haste  to  Cobre. 

After  his  supper  Stanley  strolled  into  Zu 
rich's  —  The  New  York  Store. 

Unknown  to  him,  at  that  hour  brown  Aw- 
guan  was  being  driven  back  to  his  little  home 
corral,  resaddled  —  with  Stanley's  saddle  — 
and  led  away  into  the  dark. 

Stanley  exchanged  greetings  with  the  half- 


114          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

dozen  customers  who  lingered  at  the  counters, 
and  demanded  his  mail.  Zurich  handed  out 
two  fat  letters  with  the  postmark  of  Abingdon, 
New  York.  While  Stanley  read  them,  Zurich 
called  across  the  store  to  a  purchaser  of  cigars 
and  tobacco: 

11  Hello,  Wiley!  Thought  you  had  gone  to 
Silverbell  so  wild  and  fierce/' 

"Am  a-going  now,"  said  Wiley,  "soon  as  I 
throw  a  couple  or  three  drinks  under  my  belt.1' 

"Say,  Bat,  do  you  think  you'll  make  the 
morning  train?  It's  going  on  nine  now." 

"Surest  thing  you  know!  That  span  of 
mine  can  stroll  along  mighty  peart.  Once  I  get 
out  on  the  flat,  we'll  burn  the  breeze." 

"Come  over  here,  then,"  said  Zurich.  "I 
want  you  to  take  some  cash  and  send  it  down 
to  the  bank  by  express  —  about  eight  hun 
dred;  and  some  checks  besides.  I  can't  wait 
for  the  stage  —  it  won't  get  there  till  to 
morrow  night.  I  Ve  overdrawn  my  account, 
with  my  usual  carelessness,  and  I  want  this 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  115 

money  to  get  to  the  bank  before  the  checks 
do/' 

Stanley  went  back  to  his  little  one-roomed 
house.  He  shaved,  bathed,  laid  out  his  Sun 
day  best,  re-read  his  precious  letters,  and 
dropped  off  to  dreamless  sleep. 

Between  midnight  and  one  o'clock  Bat 
Wiley,  wild-eyed  and  raging,  burst  into  the 
barroom  of  the  Admiral  Dewey  and  startled 
with  a  tale  of  wrongs  such  part  of  wakeful 
Cobre  as  there  made  wassail.  At  the  crossing 
of  Largo  Draw  he  had  been  held  up  at  a  gun's 
point  by  a  single  robber  on  horseback;  Zu 
rich's  money  had  been  taken  from  him,  to 
gether  with  some  seventy  dollars  of  his  own; 
his  team  had  been  turned  loose;  it  had  taken 
him  nearly  an  hour  to  catch  them  again,  so  de 
laying  the  alarm  by  that  much. 

Boots  and  spurs;  saddling  of  horses;  Bob 
Holland,  the  deputy  sheriff,  was  called  from 
his  bed;  a  swift  posse  galloped  into  the  night, 


Ii6          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

joined  at  the  last  moment  by  Mr.  Dewing,  who 
had  retired  early,  but  had  been  roused  by  the 
clamor. 

They  came  to  Largo  Crossing  at  daybreak. 
The  trail  of  the  robber's  horse  led  straight  to 
Cobre,  following  bypaths  through  the  moun 
tains.  The  tracks  showed  plainly  that  his  com 
ing  had  been  by  these  same  short  cuts,  saving 
time  while  Bat  Wiley  had  followed  the  tor 
tuous  stage  road  through  the  hills.  Halfway 
back  a  heavy  spur  lay  in  the  trail;  some  one 
recognized  it  as  Stanley  Mitchell's  —  a  smith- 
wrought  spur,  painfully  fashioned  from  a  sin 
gle  piece  of  drill  steel. 

They  came  to  Cobre  before  sunup;  they 
found  brown  Awguan,  dejected  and  sweat- 
streaked,  standing  in  hip-shot  weariness  on  the 
hill  near  his  corral.  In  the  corral  Stanley's 
saddle  lay  in  the  sand,  the  blankets  sweat- 
soaked. 

Unwillingly  enough,  Holland  woke  Stan 
from  a  smiling  sleep  to  arrest  him.  They 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          117 

searched  the  little  room,  finding  the  mate  to 
the  spur  found  on  the  trail,  but  nothing  else 
to  their  purpose.  But  at  last,  bringing  Stan's 
saddle  in  before  locking  the  house,  Bull  Pepper 
noticed  a  bumpy  appearance  in  the  sheepskin 
lining,  and  found,  between  saddle  skirt  and 
saddle  tree,  the  stolen  money  in  full,  and  even 
the  checks  that  Zurich  had  sent. 

They  haled  Stan  before  the  justice,  who  was 
also  proprietor  of  the  Mountain  House.  Waiv 
ing  examination,  Stanley  Mitchell  was  held  to 
meet  the  action  of  the  Grand  Jury;  and  in  de 
fault  of  bond  —  his  guilt  being  assured  and 
manifest  —  he  was  committed  to  Tucson  Jail. 

The  morning  stage,  something  delayed  on 
his  account,  bore  him  away  under  guard,  en 
route,  most  clearly,  for  the  penitentiary. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.  PETER  JOHNSON'S  arrival  in 
Morning  Gate  Pass  was  coincident  with 
that  of  a  very  bright  and  businesslike  sun.  Mr. 
Johnson  had  made  a  night  ride  from  the  Gav- 
ilan  country,  where  he  had  spent  the  better 
part  of  a  pleasant  week,  during  which  he  had 
contrived  to  commingle  a  minimum  of  labor 
with  a  joyous  maximum  of  innocent  amuse 
ment.  The  essence  of  these  diversions  con 
sisted  of  attempts  —  purposely  clumsy  —  to 
elude  the  vigilance  of  such  conspirator  pros 
pectors  as  yet  remained  to  neighbor  him; 
sudden  furtive  sallies  and  excursions,  begin 
ning  at  all  unreasonable  and  unexpected  hours, 
ending  always  in  the  nothing  they  set  out  for, 
followed  always  by  the  frantic  espionage  of 
his  mystified  and  bedeviled  guardians  —  on 
whom  the  need  fell  that  some  of  them  must 
always  watch  while  their  charge  reposed  from 
his  labors. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          119 

Tiring  at  last  of  this  pastime,  observing  also 
that  his  playfellows  grew  irritable  and  desper 
ate,  Mr.  Johnson  had  sagely  concluded  that 
his  entertainment  palled.  Caching  most  of  his 
plunder  and  making  a  light  pack  of  the  re 
mainder,  he  departed,  yawning,  taking  trail 
for  Cobre  in  the  late  afternoon  of  the  day  pre 
ceding  his  advent  in  Morning  Gate. 

He  perched  on  the  saddle,  with  a  leg  curled 
round  the  horn;  he  whistled  the  vivacious  air 
of  Tule,  Tule  Pan,  a  gay  fanfaronade  of  roist 
ering  notes,  the  Mexican  words  for  which  are, 
for  considerations  of  high  morality,  best  un 
sung. 

The  pack-horses  paced  down  the  trail,  far 
ahead,  with  snatched  nibblings  at  convenient 
wayside  tufts  of  grass. 

Jackson  Carr,  freighter,  was  still  camped  at 
Hospital  Springs.  He  lifted  up  his  eyes  as  this 
careless  procession  sauntered  down  the  hills; 
and,  rising,  intercepted  its  coming  at  the  forks 
of  the  trail,  heading  the  pack-horses  in  to- 


120          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

ward  his  camp.  He  walked  with  a  twisting 
limp,  his  blue  eyes  were  faded  and  pale,  his 
bearded  face  was  melancholy  and  sad;  but  as 
he  seated  himself  on  a  stone  and  waited  for 
Johnson's  coming,  some  of  the  sadness  passed 
and  his  somber  face  lit  up  with  unwonted  an 
imation. 

" Howdy,  Pete!  I  heard  yuh  was  coming.  I 
waited  for  yuh." 

Pete  leaped  from  his  horse  and  gripped  the 
freighter's  hand. 

"Jackson  Carr,  by  all  that's  wonderful! 
Jack,  old  man!  How  is  it  with  you?" 

Jackson  Carr  hesitated,  speaking  slowly: 

"Sally's  gone,  Pete.  She  died  eight  years 
ago.  She  had  a  hard  life  of  it,  Pete.  Gay  and 
cheerful  to  the  last,  though.  Always  such  a 
brave  little  trick  .  .  ." 

His  voice  trailed  off  to  silence.  It  was  long 
before  Pete  Johnson  broke  upon  that  silence. 

"We  '11  soon  be  by  with  it,  Jack.  Day  before 
yesterday  we  was  boys  together  in  Uvalde  an* 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          121 

Miss  Sally  a  tomboy  with  us.  To-morrow  will 
be  no  worse,  as  I  figure  it."  He  looked  hard  at 
the  hills.  "It  can't  be  all  a  silly  joke.  That 
would  be  too  stupid!  No  jolthead  made  these 
hills.  It's  all  right,  I  reckon.  .  .  .  And  the  little 
shaver?  He  was  only  a  yearlin'  when  I  saw  him 
last.  And  I  have  n't  heard  a  word  about  you 


since." 


"  Right  as  rain,  Bobby  is.  Coin'  on  ten  now. 
Of  course  't  ain't  as  if  he  had  his  mother  to  look 
after  him ;  but  I  do  the  best  I  can  by  him.  Wish 
he  had  a  better  show  for  schoolin',  though.  I 
have  n't  been  prosperin'  much  —  since  Sally 
died.  Seems  like  I  sorter  lost  my  grip.  But  I 
aim  to  put  Bobby  in  school  here  when  it  starts 
up,  next  fall.  I  am  asking  you  no  questions 
about  yourself,  Pete,  because  I  have  done  little 
but  ask  questions  about  you  since  I  first  heard 
you  were  here,  four  or  five  days  ago." 

"By  hooky,  Jack,  I  never  expected  to  see 
you  again.  Where  you  been  all  these  years? 
And  how'd  you  happen  to  turn  up  here?" 


122  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Never  mind  me,  Pete.  Here  is  too  much 
talk  of  my  affairs  and  none  of  yours.  Man,  I 
have  news  for  your  ear!  Your  pardner's  in 
jail." 

"Ya-as?  What's  he  been  doin'  now?" 

"  Highway  robbery.  He  got  caught  with  the 
goods  on.  Eight  or  nine  hundred." 

"The  little  old  skeesicks!  Who'd  have 
thought  it  of  him?  "  said  Pete  tolerantly.  Then 
his  face  clouded  over.  "He  might  have  let  me 
in  on  it!"  he  complained.  "Jack,  you  lead  me 
to  your  grub  pile  and  tell  me  all  about  it. 
Sounds  real  interestin'.  Where's  Bob?  He 
asleep  yet?" 

"Huh!  Asleep?"  said  Carr  with  a  sniff  that 
expressed  fatherly  pride  in  no  small  degree. 
"Not  him!  Lit  out  o'  here  at  break  o'  day  — 
him  and  that  devil  horse  of  his,  wrangling  the 
work  stock.  He's  a  mighty  help  to  me.  I  ain't 
very  spry  on  my  pins  since  —  you  know." 

To  eke  out  the  words  he  gave  an  extra  swing 
to  his  twisted  leg.  They  came  to  a  great  freight 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  123 

wagon  under  a  tree,  with  tackle  showing  that 
it  was  a  six-horse  outfit. 

"Here  we  are!  'Light  down  and  unsaddle, 
Petey,  and  we'll  take  off  the  packs.  Turn 
your  horses  loose.  Bobby '11  look  out  for  them 
when  he  comes.  No  need  to  hobble.  There! 
Wash  up?  Over  yonder 's  the  pan.  I'll  pour 
your  coffee  and  one  for  myself.  I've  eaten 
already.  Pitch  in!" 

Pete  equipped  himself  with  tinware  and 
cutlery,  doubled  one  leg  under  and  sat  upon  it 
before  the  fire.  From  the  ovens  and  skillets  on 
the  embers  Pete  heaped  his  plate  with  a  savory 
stew,  hot  sourdough  bread,  fried  rabbit,  and 
canned  corn  fried  to  a  delicate  golden  brown. 
Pete  took  a  deep  draught  of  the  unsweetened 
hot  black  coffee,  placed  the  cup  on  the  sand 
beside  him,  and  gathered  up  knife  and  fork. 

From  the  farther  side  of  the  fire  Carr  brought 
another  skillet,  containing  jerky,  with  onions 
and  canned  tomatoes. 

"From  the  recipe  of  a  nobleman  in  the 
county,"  he  said. 


124          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Now,  then,"  said  Pete,  "tell  it  to  me." 

So  Carr  told  him  at  length  the  story  of  the 
robbery  and  Stanley  Mitchell's  arrest,  aided  by 
a  few  questions  from  Pete. 

"And  the  funny  thing  is,  there's  a  lot  of 
folks  not  so  well  satisfied  yet,  for  all  they  found 
the  money  and  notwithstandin'  the  young  fel 
ler  himself  did  n't  make  no  holler.  They  say 
he  was  n't  that  kind.  The  deputy  sher'f, 
'special,  says  he  don't  believe  but  what  it  was 
a  frame-up  to  do  him.  And  Bull  Pepper,  that 
found  the  money  hid  in  the  saddle  riggin',  says 
he:  'That  money  was  put  there  a-purpose  to 
be  found;  fixed  so  it  would  n't  be  missed.'" 

He  looked  a  question. 

"Ya-as,"  said  Pete. 

Thus  encouraged,  Carr  continued: 

"And  Old  Mose  Taylor,  at  the  Mountain 
House  —  Mitchell  got  his  hearin'  before  him, 
you  know  —  he  says  Mitchell  ain't  surprised 
or  excited  or  much  worried,  and  makes  no  big 
kick,  just  sits  quiet,  a-studyin',  and  he's 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          125 

damned  if  he  believes  he  ever  done  it.  Oh,  yes! 
Mose  told  me  if  I  see  you  to  tell  you  young 
Mitchell  left  some  money  in  the  safe  for  you." 

"Ya-as,"  said  Pete.  "Here  comes  your 
caballada.  Likely  looking  horses,  Jack." 

"  A  leetle  thin/'  said  Carr. 

He  took  six  nose-bags,  already  filled,  and  fed 
his  wagon  stock.  Bobby  pulled  the  saddle  from 
the  Nan-na  pony,  tied  him  to  a  bush,  and  gave 
him  breakfast  from  his  own  small  morral.  Then 
he  sidled  toward  the  fire. 

"Bobby,  come  over  here,"  said  Bobby's  fa 
ther.  "  This  is  your  stepuncle  Pete." 

Bobby  complied.  He  gave  Pete  a  small 
grimy  hand  and  looked  him  over  thoughtfully 
from  tip  to  tip,  opening  his  blue  eyes  to  their 
widest  for  that  purpose,  under  their  long  black 
lashes. 

"You  Stan  Mitchell's  pardner?" 

"I  am  that." 

"You  goin'  to  break  him  out  o'  the  pen?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know!"  said  Pete. 


126          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"That's  good!"  He  relaxed  his  grip  on 
Pete's  hand  and  addressed  himself  to  break 
fast.  "I  like  Stan,"  he  announced,  with  his 
head  in  the  chuck-box. 

Pete  used  the  opportunity  to  exchange  a 
look  with  Bobby's  father. 

Bobby  emerged  from  the  chuck-box  and  re 
sumed  the  topic  of  Stanley  Mitchrll. 

"He'll  make  a  hand  after  he's  been  here  a 
spell  —  Stan  will,"  he  stated  gravely. 

"Oh,  you  know  him,  then?" 

"I  was  with  him  the  evenin'  before  the  big 
doin's.  He  did  n't  steal  no  money!" 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"Easy!  He's  got  brains,  hain't  he?  I  rode 
with  him  maybe  a  mile,  but  I  could  see  that. 
Well!  If  he'd  stole  that  money,  they  would  n't 
'a '  found  it  yet.  Them  fellows  make  me  tired ! ' ' 

Pete  made  a  pretext  of  thirst  and  brought  a 
bucket  for  water  from  the  spring,  crooking  a 
finger  at  Jackson  Carr  to  follow.  Carr  found 
him  seated  at  the  spring,  shaking  with  laughter. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  127 

"  Jack,  he's  all  there  —  your  boy!  Could  n't 
any  judge  size  it  up  better." 

" Frame-up,  then?" 

"Sure!  That  part's  all  right." 

"I  see  you  was  n't  much  taken  aback." 

"No.  We  was  expectin'  something  like  that 
and  had  discounted  it.  I  'm  just  as  well  pleased 
Stan's  in  jail  just  now,  and  I'm  goin'  to  leave 
him  there  a  spell.  Safer  there.  You  remember 
old  Hank  Bergman?" 

Carr  nodded. 

"Well,  Hank's  the  sheriff  here  — and  he'll 
give  us  a  square  deal.  Now  I'm  goin'  back 
to  interview  that  boy  of  yours  some  more.  I 
reckon  you're  right  proud  of  that  kid,  Jack." 

"Yes;  I  am.  Bobby's  a  pretty  good  boy 
most  ways.  But  he  swears  something  dread 
ful." 

"Pull  a  strap  off  of  him,"  said  Pete  warmly. 
"That's  a  damn  fine  boy,  and  you  want  to 
start  him  right.  That's  half  the  battle." 

Pete  returned  to  the  fire  for  a  final  cup  of 
coffee. 


128          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  " would  you  know 
that  brown  horse  Stan  was  ridin*  when  you 
met  up  with  him?" 

"Awguan?  Sure!  I'd  know  him  in  hell!" 
said  Bobby. 

"Well,  Stan  turned  that  horse  loose  te 
rustle  for  himself,  of  course.  Do  you  reckon 
you  could  stir  round  and  find  him  for  me  — 
if  your  dad  can  spare  you?  I  want  to  go  to 
the  railroad  to-night,  and  Awguan,  he's  fresh. 
My  horses  are  tired." 

"  If  you  don't  want  that  horse,"  said  Bobby, 
don't  send  me  after  him." 

"Now,  Jack,"  said  Pete  after  Bobby  had 
departed  on  the  search  for  Awguan,  "you  go 
away  and  don't  pester  me.  I  want  to  think." 

To  the  processes  of  thought,  for  the  space  of 
four  pipes,  he  gave  aid  by  hugging  his  knees,  as 
if  he  had  called  them  in  consultation.  Then 
he  summoned  Jackson  Carr. 

"How 're  you  fixed  for  work,  Jack?" 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  129 

"None.  I  reckon  to  get  plenty,  though, 
when  I  get  my  teams  fitted  up.  They're 
jaded  from  a  lumber  job." 

"You're  hired  —  for  a  year,  month,  and 
day.  And  as  much  longer  as  you  like.  Suit 
you?" 

"Suits  me." 

"You're  my  foreman,  then.  Hire  your 
teams  the  first  thing.  Make  your  own  terms. 
I'll  tell  you  this  much  —  it's  a  big  thing.  A 
mine  —  a  he-mine ;  copper.  That 's  partly  why 
Stan  is  in  jail.  And  if  it  comes  off,  you  won't 
need  to  worry  about  the  kid's  schooling.  I  aim 
to  give  you,  extra,  five  per  cent  of  my  share 
—  and,  for  men  like  you  and  me,  five  per  cent 
of  this  lay  is  exactly  the  same  as  all  of  it. 
It's  that  big. 

"I'm  askin'  you  to  obey  orders  in  the  dark. 
If  you  don't  know  any  details  you  won't  be 
mad,  and  you  won't  know  who  to  be  mad  at;  so 
you  won't  jump  in  to  save  the  day  if  I  fail  to 
come  through  with  my  end  of  it  on  schedule, 


130          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

and  get  yourself  killed  off.  That  ain't  allr 
either.  Your  face  always  gives  you  away;  if 
you  knew  all  the  very  shrewd  people  I'm 
buckin',  you'd  give  'em  the  marble  eye,  and 
they'd  watch  you.  Not  knowin'  'em,  you'll 
treat  'em  all  alike,  and  you  won't  act  suspi 
cious. 

11  Listen  now:  You  drift  out  quiet  and  go 
down  on  the  Gila,  somewhere  between  Mo 
hawk  Siding  and  Walton.  Know  that  country? 
Yes?  That's  good.  Leave  your  teams  there 
and  you  go  down  to  Yuma  on  the  train.  I  '11 
get  a  bit  of  money  for  you  in  Tucson,  and  it'll 
be  waitin'  for  you  in  Old  Man  Brownell's  store, 
in  Yuma.  You  get  a  minin'  outfit,  complete, 
and  a  good  layout  of  grub,  enough  to  last  six 
or  seven  men  till  it's  all  gone,  and  some  bed- 
din',  two  or  three  thirty- thirty  rifles,  any 
large  quantity  of  cartridges,  and  'most  any 
thing  else  you  see. 

"Here's  the  particular  part:  Buy  two  more 
wagons,  three-and-a-half-inch  axles;  about 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          131 

twenty  barrels;  two  pack-saddles  and  kegs  for 
same,  for  packing  water  from  some  tanks  when 
your  water  wagons  don't  do  the  trick.  Ship  all 
this  plunder  up  to  Mohawk. 

"  Here's  the  idea:  I'm  goin'  back  East  for 
capital,  and  I  'm  comin'  back  soon.  Me  and 
my  friends  —  not  a  big  bunch,  but  every  man- 
jack  of  'em  to  be  a  regular  person  —  are  goin' 
to  start  from  Tucson,  or  Douglas,  and  hug  the 
Mexican  border  west  across  the  desert,  ridin' 
light  and  fast;  you're  to  go  south  with  water; 
and  Cobre  is  to  be  none  the  wiser.  Here,  I  '11 
make  you  a  map." 

He  traced  the  map  in  the  sand. 

11  Here's  the  railroad,  and  Mohawk;  here's 
your  camp  on  the  Gila.  Just  as  soon  as  you 
get  back,  load  up  one  of  your  new  wagons  with 
water  and  go  south.  There's  no  road,  but 
there's  two  ranges  that  makes  a  lane,  twenty 
miles  wide,  leadin'  to  the  southeast:  Lomas 
Negras,  the  black  mountain  due  south  of  Mo 
hawk,  and  Cabeza  Prieta,  a  brown-colored 


132          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

range,  farther  west.  Keep  right  down  the 
middle,  but  miss  all  the  sand  you  can;  you'll 
be  layin'  out  a  road  you'll  have  to  travel  a 
heap.  Only,  of  course,  you  can  straighten  it 
out  and  better  it  after  you  learn  the  country. 
It  might  be  a  pious  idea  for  you  to  ship  up  a 
mowing  machine  and  a  hayrake  from  Yuma, 
like  you  was  fixin'  to  cut  wild  hay.  It's  a 
good  plan  always  to  leave  something  to  satisfy 
curiosity.  Or,  play  you  was  aimin'  to  dry-farm. 
You  shape  up  your  rig  to  suit  yourself  —  but 
play  up  to  it." 

"I'll  hay  it,"  said  Carr. 

"All  right  —  hay  it,  by  all  means.  Take 
your  first  load  of  water  out  about  twenty-five 
miles  and  leave  it  —  using  as  little  as  you  can 
to  camp  on.  You  '11  have  to  have  three  full  sets 
of  chains  and  whiffletrees  for  your  six-horse 
team,  of  course.  You  can't  bother  with  drag 
ging  a  buckboard  along  behind  to  take  'em 
back  with.  Go  back  to  the  railroad,  take  a 
second  load  of  water,  camp  the  first  night  out 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  133 

at  your  first  wagon,  and  leave  the  second  load 
of  water  farther  south,  twenty-five  miles  or  so. 

*  'Then  go  back  to  the  Gila  and  pack  the  rest 
of  your  plunder  in  this  wagon  of  yours,  all 
ready  to  start  the  minute  you  get  a  telegram 
from  me.  Wire  back  to  me  so  I  '11  know  when 
to  start.  You  will  have  water  for  your  horses 
at  twenty-five  miles  and  fifty,  and  enough  left 
to  use  when  you  go  back  for  your  next  trip. 
After  that  we'll  have  other  men  to  help  you. 

"When  you  leave  the  last  wagon,  put  on  all 
the  water  your  horses  can  draw.  You  '11  strike 
little  or  no  sand  after  that  and  we'll  need  all 
the  water  we  can  get.  With  no  bad  luck,  you 
come  out  opposite  the  south  end  of  your  black 
mountain  the  third  day.  Wait  there  for  us. 
It's  three  long  days,  horseback,  from  Tucson; 
we  ought  to  get  to  your  camp  that  night. 

"If  we  don't  come,  wait  till  noon  the  next 
day.  Then  saddle  up,  take  your  pack-saddles 
and  kegs,  and  drag  it  for  the  extreme  south  end 
of  the  mountains  on  your  west,  about  twenty 


134          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

miles.  That  ought  to  leave  enough  water  at 
the  wagon  for  us  to  camp  on  if  we  come  later. 
If  you  wait  for  us,  your  horses  will  use  it  all  up. 

"When  you  come  to  the  south  end  of  your 
Cabeza  Prieta  Mountain,  right  spang  on  the 
border,  you  '11  find  a  canon  there,  coming  down 
from  the  north,  splitting  the  range.  Turn  up 
that  canon,  and  when  it  gets  so  rough  you  can't 
go  any  farther,  keep  right  on;  you  '11  find  some 
rock  tanks  full  of  water,  in  a  box  where  the 
sun  can't  get  'em.  That's  all.  Got  that?"  ; 

"  I  Ve  got  it,"  said  Carr.  "  But  Pete,  are  n't 
you  taking  too  long  a  chance?  Why  can't  I  — 
or  both  of  us  —  just  slip  down  there  quietly 
and  do  enough  work  on  your  mine  to  hold  it? 
They're  liable  to  beat  you  to  it." 

"I've  been  tryin'  to  make  myself  believe 
that  a  long  time,"  said  Pete  earnestly;  "but  I 
am  far  too  intelligent.  These  people  are  capa 
ble  of  any  rudeness.  And  they  are  strictly  on 
the  lookout.  I  do  not  count  myself  timid,  but 
I  don't  want  to  tackle  it.  That  mine  ain't 
worth  over  six  or  eight  millions  at  best." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  135 

"But  they  won't  be  watching  me,"  said 
Carr. 

"  Maybe  not.  I  hope  not.  For  one  thing, 
you'll  have  a  good  excuse  to  pull  out  from 
Cobre.  You  won't  get  any  freighting  here. 
Old  Zurich  has  got  it  all  grabbed  and  con 
tracted  for.  All  you  could  get  would  be  a  sub 
contract,  giving  you  a  chance  to  do  the  work 
and  let  Zurich  take  the  profit. 

"Now,  to  come  back  to  this  mine:  No  one 
knows  where  it  is.  It's  pretty  safe  till  I  go  after 
it;  and  I'm  pretty  safe  till  I  go  after  it.  Once 
we  get  to  it,  it's  going  to  be  a  case  of  armed 
pickets  and  Who  goes  there?  —  night  and  day, 
till  we  get  legal  title.  And  it's  going  to  take 
slews  of  money  and  men  and  horses  to  get 
water  and  supplies  to  those  miners  and  war 
riors.  Listen:  One  or  the  other  of  two  things 
—  two  —  is  going  to  happen.  Count  'em  off 
on  your  fingers.  Either  no  one  will  find  that 
mine  before  me  and  my  friends  meet  up  with 
you  and  your  water,  or  else  some  one  will  find 


136          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

it  before  then.  If  no  one  finds  it  first,  we've 
lost  nothing.  That's  plain.  But  if  my  Cobre 
friends  —  the  push  that  railroaded  Stan  to 
jail  —  if  they  should  find  that  place  while  I  'm 
back  in  New  York,  and  little  Jackson  Carr 
working  on  it  —  Good-bye,  Jackson  Carr! 
They'd  kill  you  without  a  word.  That's  an 
other  thing  I  'm  going  back  to  New  York  for 
besides  getting  money.  There's  something  be 
hind  Stanley's  jail  trip  besides  the  copper  prop 
osition;  and  that  something  is  back  in  New 
York.  I  'm  going  to  see  what  about  it. 

"Just  one  thing  more:  If  we  don't  come, 
and  you  have  to  strike  out  for  the  tanks  in 
Cabeza  Mountain,  you  '11  notice  a  mess  of  low, 
little,  insignificant,  roan-colored,  squatty  hills 
spraddled  along  to  the  south  of  you.  You  shun 
them  hills,  bearing  off  to  your  right.  There's 
where  our  mine  is.  And  some  one  might  be 
watching  you  or  following  your  tracks.  That 's 
all.  Now  I  'm  going  to  sleep.  Wake  me  about 
an  hour  by  sun/1 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  137 

Mr.  Peter  Johnson  sat  in  the  office  of  the 
Tucson  Jail  and  smiled  kindly  upon  Mr.  Stan 
ley  Mitchell. 

"Well,  you  got  here  at  last,"  said  Stan. 
41  Gee,  but  I  'm  glad  to  see  you !  What  kept  you 
so  long?" 

"  Stanley,  I  am  surprised  at  you.  I  am  so. 
You  keep  on  like  this  and  you  're  going  to  have 
people  down  on  you.  Too  bad!  But  I  suppose 
boys  will  be  boys,"  said  Pete  tolerantly. 

"I  knew  you'd  spring  something  like  this," 
said  Stan.  "Take  your  time." 

"  I  'm  afraid  it's  you  that  will  take  time,  my 
boy.  Can't  you  dig  up  any  evidence  to  help 
you?" 

"  I  don't  see  how.  I  went  to  sleep  and  did  n't 
hear  a  thing;  did  n't  wake  up  till  they  arrested 


me." 


"Oh!  You're  claiming  that  you  did  n't  do 
the  robbin'  at  all?  I  see-e!  Standing  on  your 
previous  record  and  insistin'  you're  the  vic 
tim  of  foul  play?  Sympathy  dodge?  . .  .  Hum! 


138          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

You  stick  to  that,  my  boy,"  said  Pete  benevo 
lently.  "  Maybe  that's  as  good  a  show  as  any. 
Get  a  good  lawyer.  If  you  could  hire  some  real 
fine  old  gentleman  and  a  nice  little  old  gray- 
haired  lady  to  be  your  parents  and  weep  at  the 
jury,  it  might  help  a  heap.  ...  If  you'd  only 
had  sense  enough  to  have  hid  that  money 
where  it  could  n't  have  been  found,  or  where 
it  would  n't  have  been  a  give-away  on  you,  at 
least!  I  suppose  you  was  scared.  But  it  sorter 
reflects  back  on  me,  since  you  've  been  running 
with  me  lately.  Folks  will  think  I  should  have 
taught  you  better.  What  made  you  do  it, 
Stanley?" 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you  're  going  to  get  me 
roiled,  you  old  fool !  You  've  got  another  guess, 
then.  You  can't  get  my  nanny!  But  I  do  think 
you  might  tell  me  what's  been  going  on.  Even 
a  guilty  man  has  his  curiosity.  Did  you  get 
the  money  I  left  for  you?" 

Pete's  jaw  sagged;  his  eye  expressed  foggy 
bewilderment. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          139 

"Money?  What  money?  I  thought  they  got 
it  all  when  they  arrested  you?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  gloomy  ass!  The  money  I 
left  with  Old  Man  Taylor;  the  money  you  got 
down  here  for  preliminary  expenses  on  the 


mine." 


"Mine?"  echoed  Pete  blankly.  "What 
mine?" 

"Old  stuff!"  Stanley  laughed  aloud.  "Go 
to  it,  old-timer!  You  can* t  faze  me.  When  you 
get  good  and  ready  to  ring  off,  let  me  know." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Pete,  "I  will.  Here  we 
go,  fresh.  And  you  may  not  be  just  the  best- 
pleased  with  my  plan  at  first,  son.  I'm  not 
going  to  bail  you  out." 

"What  the  hell!"  said  Stan.     "  Why  not?" 

"I've  thought  it  all  out,"  said  Pete,  "and 
I've  talked  it  over  with  the  sheriff.  He's 
agreed.  You  have  to  meet  the  action  of  the 
Grand  Jury,  anyhow;  you  couldn't  leave  the 
county;  and  you're  better  off  in  jail  while  I  go 
back  to  New  York  to  rustle  money." 


140          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Oh  —  you're  going,  are  you?" 

"To-night.  You  couldn't  leave  the  county 
even  if  you  were  out  on  bond.  The  sheriff's  a 
square  man;  he  '11  treat  you  right;  you  '11  have 
a  chance  to  get  shut  of  that  insomnia,  and 
right  here 's  the  safest  place  in  Pima  County  for 
you.  I  want  a  letter  to  that  cousin  of  yours  in 
Abingdon." 

"  'T  is  n't  Abingdon  —  it 's  Vesper.  And  I  'm 
not  particularly  anxious  to  tell  him  that  I'm 
in  jail  on  a  felony  charge." 

"  Don't  want  you  to  tell  him  —  or  anybody. 
I  suppose  you've  told  your  girl  already?  Yes? 
Thought  so.  Well,  don't  you  tell  any  one  else. 
You  tell  Cousin  Oscar  I  'm  your  pardner,  and 
all  right;  and  that  you've  got  a  mine,  and 
you'll  guarantee  the  expenses  for  him  and  an 
expert  in  case  they're  not  satisfied  upon  inves 
tigation.  I'll  do  the  rest.  And  don't  you  let 
anybody  bail  you  out  of  jail.  You  stay  here." 

"If  I  had  n't  seen  you  perform  a  miracle  or 
two  before  now,  I'd  see  you  damned  first!" 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  141 

said  Stan.  "But  I  suppose  you  know  what 
you're  about.  It's  more  than  I  do.  Make  it  a 
quick  one,  will  you?  I  find  myself  bored  here." 

"I  will.  Let  me  outline  two  of  the  many 
possibilities:  If  I  don't  bail  you  out,  I'm  doin' 
you  dirt,  ain't  I?  Well,  then,  if  Zurich  &  Gang 
think  I'm  double-crossin'  you  they'll  make 
me  a  proposition  to  throw  in  with  them  and 
throw  you  down  on  the  copper  mine.  That's 
my  best  chance  to  find  out  how  to  keep  you 
from  goin'  to  the  pen,  is  n't  it?  And  if  you 
don't  tell  Vesper  that  you're  in  jail  —  but 
Vesper  finds  it  out,  anyhow  —  that  gives  me  a 
chance  to  see  who  it  is  that  lives  in  Vesper  and 
keeps  in  touch  with  Cobre.  And  I  '11  tell  you 
something  else:  When  I  come  back  I'll  bail 
you  out  of  jail  and  we'll  start  from  here.'1 

"For  the  mine,  you  mean?" 

"Sure!  Start  right  from  the  jail  door  at 
midnight  and  ride  west.  Zurich  &  Company 
won't  be  expecting  that  —  seein'  as  how  I  left 
you  in  the  lurch,  this-a-way." 


142          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"But  my  cousin  will  never  be  able  to  stand 
that  ride.  It's  a  hundred  and  sixty  miles  — 
more  too." 

"Your  cousin  can  join  us  later  —  or  who 
ever  comes  along  with  development  money. 
There'll  be  about  four  or  five  of  us  —  picked 
men.  I'm  goin'  this  afternoon  to  see  an  old 
friend  —  Joe  Benavides  —  and  have  him  make 
all  arrangements  and  be  all  ready  to  start 
whenever  we  get  back,  without  any  delay.  I 
won't  take  the  sheriff,  because  we  might  have 
negotiations  to  transact  that  would  be  highly 
indecorous  in  a  sheriff.  But  he's  to  share  my 
share,  because  he  put  up  a  lot  more  money  for 
the  mine  to-day.  I  sent  it  on  to  Yuma,  where 
an  old  friend  of  mine  and  the  sheriff's  is  to  buy 
a  six-horse  load  of  supplies  and  carry  'em  down 
to  join  us,  startin'  when  I  telegraph  him. 

"Got  it  all  worked  out.  You  do  as  I  tell  you 
and  you'll  wear  diamonds  on  your  stripes. 
Give  me  a  note  for  that  girl  of  yours,  too." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

T'HE  hills  send  down  a  buttress  to  the 
north;  against  it  the  Susquehanna  flows 
swift  and  straight  for  a  little  space,  vainly 
chafing.  Just  where  the  high  ridge  breaks 
sharp  and  steep  to  the  river's  edge  there  is  a 
grassy  level,  lulled  by  the  sound  of  pleasant 
waters;  there  sleep  the  dead  of  Abingdon. 

Here  is  a  fair  and  noble  prospect,  which  in 
Italy  or  in  California  had  been  world-famed; 
a  beauty  generous  and  gracious  —  valley,  up 
land  and  hill  and  curving  river.  The  hills  are 
checkered  to  squares,  cleared  fields  and  green- 
black  woods;  inevitably  the  mind  goes  out  to 
those  who  wrought  here  when  the  forest  was 
unbroken,  and  so  comes  back  to  read  on  the 
headstones  the  names  of  the  quiet  dead:  Hill, 
Barton,  Clark,  Green,  Camp,  Hunt,  Catlin, 
Giles,  Sherwood,  Tracy,  Jewett,  Lane,  Gibson, 
Holmes,  Yates,  Hopkins,  Goodenow,  Gris- 
wold,  Steele.  Something  stirs  at  your  hair- 


144          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

roots  —  these  are  the  names  of  the  English.  A 
few  sturdy  Dutch  names  —  Boyce,  Steenburg, 
Van  Lear  —  and  a  lonely  French  Mercereau; 
the  rest  are  unmixed  English. 

Not  unnaturally  you  look  next  for  an  Epis 
copalian  Church,  finding  none  in  Abingdon; 
Abingdon  is  given  over  to  fiery  Dissenters  — 
the  Old-World  word  comes  unbidden  into  your 
mouth.  But  you  were  not  so  far  wrong;  in 
prosperous  Vesper,  to  westward,  every  one  who 
pretends  to  be  any  one  attends  services  at 
Saint  Adalbert's,  a  church  noted  for  its  gra 
cious  and  satisfying  architecture.  In  Vesper 
the  name  of  Henry  VIII  is  revered  and  his 
example  followed. 

But  the  inquiring  mind,  seeking  among  the 
living  bearers  of  these  old  names,  suffers  check 
and  disillusion.  There  are  no  traditions.  Their 
title  deeds  trace  back  to  Coxe's  Manor, 
Nichols  Patent,  the  Barton  Tract,  the  Flint 
Purchase,  Boston  Ten  Townships;  but  in- 
dwellers  of  the  land  know  nothing  of  who  or 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL        '  145 

why  was  Coxe,  or  where  stood  his  Manor 
House;  have  no  memory  of  the  Bostonians. 

In  Vesper  there  are  genealogists  who  might 
tell  you  such  things;  old  records  that  might 
prove  them;  old  families,  enjoying  wealth  and 
distinction  without  perceptible  cause,  with 
others  of  the  ruling  caste  who  may  have  some 
knowledge  of  these  matters.  Such  grants  were 
not  uncommon  in  the  Duke  of  York,  his  Prov 
ince.  In  that  good  duke's  day,  and  later,  fol 
lowing  the  pleasant  fashion  set  by  that  Pope  who 
divided  his  world  equally  between  Spain  and 
Portugal,  valleys  and  mountains  were  tossed  to 
supple  courtiers  by  men  named  Charles,  James, 
William,  or  George,  kings  by  the  grace  of  God; 
the  goodly  land,  the  common  wealth  and  birth 
right  of  the  unborn,  was  granted  in  princedom 
parcels  to  king's  favorites,  king's  minions,  to 
favorites  of  king's  minions,  for  services  often 
enough  unspecified. 

The  toilers  of  Abingdon  —  of  other  Abing- 
dons,  perhaps  —  know  none  of  these  things. 


146  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Winter  has  pushed  them  hard,  summer  been 
all  too  brief;  life  has  been  crowded  with  a  fe 
verish  instancy  of  work.  There  is  a  vague  mem 
ory  of  the  Sullivan  Expedition ;  once  a  year  the 
early  settlers,  as  a  community  enterprise,  had 
brought  salt  from  Syracuse;  the  forest  had 
been  rafted  down  the  river;  the  rest  is  silence. 

Perhaps  this  good  old  English  stock,  famil 
iar  for  a  thousand  years  with  oppression 
and  gentility,  wonted  to  immemorial  fraud, 
schooled  by  generations  of  cheerful  teachers  to 
speak  no  evil  of  dignities,  to  see  everything  for 
the  best  in  the  best  of  possible  worlds,  found 
no  injustice  in  the  granting  of  these  broad 
manors  —  or,  at  least,  no  novelty  worthy  of 
mention  to  their  sons.  There  is  no  whisper  of 
ancient  wrong;  no  hint  or  rankling  of  any 
irrevocable  injustice. 

Doubtless  some  of  these  land  grants  were 
made,  at  a  later  day,  to  soldiers  of  the  Rev 
olution.  But  the  children  of  the  Revolution 
maintain  a  not  unbecoming  unreticence  as  to 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  147 

all  things  Revolutionary;  from  their  silence  in 
this  regard,  as  from  the  name  of  Manor,  we 
may  make  safe  inference.  Doubtless  many  of 
the  royalist  estates  were  confiscated  at  that 
time.  Doubtless,  again,  our  Government,  to 
encourage  settlement,  sold  land  in  such  large 
parcels  in  early  days.  Incurious  Abingdon 
cares  for  none  of  these  things.  Singular  Ab 
ingdon!  And  yet  are  these  folk,  indeed,  so  sin 
gular  among  citizens?  So  unseeing  a  people? 
Consider  that,  within  the  memory  of  men  liv 
ing,  the  wisdom  of  America  has  made  free  gift 
to  the  railroads,  to  encourage  their  building,  of 
so  much  land  as  goes  to  the  making  of  New 
England,  New  York,  New  Jersey,  Pennsyl 
vania,  Delaware,  Maryland,  Ohio,  Indiana, 
and  Illinois;  a  notable  encouragement! 

History  does  not  remark  upon  this  little 
transaction,  however.  In  some  piecemeal 
fashion,  a  sentence  here,  a  phrase  elsewhere, 
with  scores  or  hundreds  of  pages  intervening, 
History  does,  indeed,  make  yawning  allusion 


148          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

to  some  such  trivial  circumstance;  refraining 
from  comment  in  the  most  well-bred  manner 
imaginable.  It  is  only  the  ill-affected,  the 
malcontents,  who  dwell  upon  such  details.  Is 
this  not,  indeed,  a  most  beautiful  world,  and 
ours  the  land  of  opportunity,  progress,  educa 
tion?  Let  our  faces,  then,  be  ever  glad  and 
shining.  Let  us  tune  ourselves  with  the  In 
finite;  let  a  golden  thread  run  through  all  our 
days;  no  frowns,  no  grouches,  no  scolding  —  no, 
no!  No  ingratitude  for  all  the  bounties  of  Prov 
idence.  Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing.  —  Doing, 
certainly;  but  why  not  think  a  little  too? 

Why  is  thinking  in  such  disfavor?  Why  is 
thinking,  about  subjects  and  things,  the  one 
crime  never  forgiven  by  respectability?  We 
have  given  away  our  resources,  what  should 
have  been  our  common  wealth ;  we  have  squan 
dered  our  land,  wasted  our  forests.  "Such 
trifles  are  not  my  business,"  interrupts  His 
tory,  rather  feverish  of  manner;  "my  duty  to 
record  and  magnify  the  affairs  of  the  great. "  — 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  149 

Allow  me,  madam;  we  have  given  away  our 
coal,  the  wealth  of  the  past;  our  oil,  the  wealth 
of  to-day;  except  we  do  presently  think  to 
some  purpose,  we  shall  give  away  our  stored 
electricity,  the  wealth  of  the  future  —  our 
water  power  which  should,  which  must,  re 
main  ours  and  our  children's.  "Socialist!" 
shrieks  History. 

The  youth  of  Abingdon  speak  glibly  of 
Shepherd  Kings,  Constitution  of  Lycurgus, 
Thermopylae,  Consul  Duilius,  or  the  Licinian 
Laws;  the  more  advanced  are  even  as  far  down 
as  Elizabeth.  For  the  rich  and  unmatched 
history  of  their  own  land,  they  have  but  a 
shallow  patter  of  that;  no  guess  at  its  high 
meaning,  no  hint  of  a  possible  destiny  apart 
from  glory  and  greed  and  war,  a  future  and 
opportunity  "too  high  for  hate,  too  great  for 
rivalry."  The  history  of  America  is  the  story 
of  the  pioneer  and  the  story  of  the  immigrant. 
The  students  are  taught  nothing  of  the  one  or 
the  other  —  except  for  the  case  of  certain  im- 


150          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

migrant  pioneers,  enskied  and  sainted,  who 
never  left  the  hearing  of  the  sea;  a  sturdy  and 
stout-hearted  folk  enough,  but  something 
press-agented. 

Outside  of  school  the  student  hears  no  men 
tion  of  living  immigrant  or  pioneer  save  in 
terms  of  gibe  and  sneer  and  taunt.  The  color 
and  high  romance  of  his  own  township  is  a 
thing  undreamed  of,  as  vague  and  shapeless  as 
the  foundations  of  Enoch,  the  city  of  Cain. 
And  for  his  own  farmstead,  though  for  the  first 
time  on  earth  a  man  made  here  a  home; 
though  valor  blazed  the  path;  though  he  laid 
the  foundation  of  that  house  in  hope  and  in 
love  set  up  the  gates  of  it,  none  knows  the 
name  of  that  man  or  of  his  bolder  mate.  There 
are  no  traditions  —  and  no  ballads. 

A  seven-mile  stretch  of  the  river  follows  the 
outlines  of  a  sickle,  or,  if  you  are  not  familiar 
with  sickles,  of  a  handmade  figure  five.  Abing- 
don  lies  at  the  sickle  point,  prosperous  Vesper 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          151 

at  the  end  of  the  handle;  Vesper,  the  county 
seat,  abode  of  lawyers  and  doctors  —  some 
bankers,  too.  Home  also  of  retired  business 
men,  of  retired  farmers;  home  of  old  families, 
hereditary  county  officials,  legislators. 

Overarched  with  maples,  the  old  road  par 
allels  the  river  bend,  a  mile  away.  The  broad 
and  fertile  bottom  land  within  the  loop  of  this 
figure  five  is  divided  into  three  great  farms  — 
"gentlemen's  estates/*  The  gentlemen  are 
absentees  all. 

A  most  desirable  neighborhood;  the  only 
traces  of  democracy  on  the  river  road  are  the 
schoolhouse  and  the  cemetery.  Malvern  and 
Brookfield  were  owned  respectively  by  two 
generals,  gallant  soldiers  of  the  Civil  War, 
successful  lawyers,  since,  of  New  York  City. 
Stately,  high-columned  Colonial  houses,  far 
back  from  the  road;  the  clustered  tenant 
houses,  the  vast  barns,  long  red  tobacco  sheds 
—  all  are  eloquent  of  a  time  when  lumber  was 
the  cheapest  factor  of  living. 


152          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

The  one  description  serves  for  the  two  farms. 
These  men  had  been  boys  together,  their 
careers  the  same;  they  had  married  sisters. 
But  the  red  tobacco  sheds  of  Malvern  were 
only  three  hundred  feet  long  —  this  general 
had  left  a  leg  at  Malvern  Hill  —  while  the 
Brookfield  sheds  stretched  full  five  hundred 
feet.  At  Brookfield,  too,  were  the  great  racing- 
stables,  of  fabulous  acreage;  disused  now  and 
falling  to  decay.  One  hundred  and  sixty  thor 
oughbreds  had  sheltered  here  of  old,  with  an 
army  of  grooms  and  trainers.  There  had  been 
a  race-track  —  an  oval  mile  at  first,  a  kite- 
shaped  mile  in  later  days.  Year  by  year  now 
sees  the  stables  torn  down  and  carted  away 
for  other  uses,  but  the  strong-built  paddocks 
remain  to  witness  the  greatness  of  days  de 
parted. 

Nearest  to  Vesper,  on  the  smallest  of  the 
three  farms,  stood  the  largest  of  the  three 
houses  —  The  Meadows;  better  known  as  the 
Mitchell  House. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          153 

McClintock,  a  foreigner  from  Philadelphia, 
married  a  Mitchell  in  '67.  A  good  family, 
highly  connected,  the  Mitchells;  brilliant,  free 
handed,  great  travelers;  something  wildish, 
the  younger  men  —  boys  will  be  boys. 

In  a  silent,  undemonstrative  manner  of  his 
own  McClintock  gathered  the  loose  money  in 
and  about  Vesper;  a  shrewd  bargainer,  un- 
given  to  merrymakings ;  one  who  knew  how  to 
keep  dollars  at  work.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that 
no  after  hint  of  ill  dealing  attached  to  these 
years.  In  his  own  bleak  way  the  man  dealt 
justly;  not  without  a  prudent  liberality  as 
well.  For  debtors  deserving,  industrious,  and 
honest,  he  observed  a  careful  and  exact  kind 
ness,  passing  by  his  dues  cheerfully,  to  take 
them  at  a  more  convenient  season.  Where 
death  had  been,  long  sickness,  unmerited  mis 
fortune —  he  did  not  stop  there;  advancing 
further  sums  for  a  tiding-over,  after  care 
ful  consideration  of  needs  and  opportunities, 
coupled  with  a  reasonable  expectation  of  re- 


154          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

payment;  cheerfully  taking  any  security  at 
hand,  taking  the  security  of  character  as  cheer 
fully  when  he  felt  himself  justified;  in  good 
time  exacting  his  dues  to  the  last  penny  —  still 
cheerfully.  Not  heartless,  either;  in  cases  of 
extreme  distress  —  more  than  once  or  twice  — 
McClintock  had  both  written  off  the  obliga 
tion  and  added  to  it  something  for  the  day's 
need,  in  a  grim  but  not  unkindly  fashion;  al 
ways  under  seal  of  secrecy.  No  extortioner, 
this;  a  dry,  passionless,  pertinacious  man. 

McClintock  bought  the  Mitchell  House  in 
the  seventies  —  boys  still  continuing  to  be 
boyish  —  and  there,  a  decade  later,  his  wife 
died,  childless. 

McClintock  disposed  of  his  takings  un 
observed,  holding  Mitchell  House  only,  and 
slipped  away  to  New  York  or  elsewhere.  The 
rents  of  Mitchell  House  were  absorbed  by  a 
shadowy,  almost  mythical  agent,  whose  name 
you  always  forgot  until  you  hunted  up  the 
spidery  signature  on  the  receipts  given  by  the 
bank  for  your  rent  money. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          155 

Except  for  a  curious  circumstance  connected 
with  Mitchell  House,  McClintock  had  been 
quite  forgotten  of  Vesper  and  Abingdon.  The 
great  house  was  much  in  demand  as  a  summer 
residence;  those  old  oak- walled  rooms  were 
spacious  and  comfortable,  if  not  artistic;  the 
house  was  admirably  kept  up.  It  was  in  the 
most  desirable  neighborhood ;  there  was  fishing 
and  boating;  the  situation  was  " sightly."  We 
borrow  the  last  word  from  the  hill  folk,  the 
presentee  landlords;  the  producers,  or,  to  put 
it  quite  bluntly,  the  workers. 

As  the  years  slipped  by,  it  crept  into  com 
mon  knowledge  that  not  every  one  could  ob 
tain  a  lease  of  Mitchell  House.  Applicants, 
Vesperian  or  " foreigners,"  were  kept  waiting; 
almost  as  if  the  invisible  agent  were  examining 
into  their  eligibility.  And  it  began  to  be  ob 
served  that  leaseholders  were  invariably  light, 
frivolous,  pleasure-loving  people,  such  as  kept 
the  big  house  crowded  with  youth  and  folly,  to 
company  youth  of  its  own.  Such  lessees  were 


156          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

like  to  make  agriculture  a  mockery;  the  Mitch 
ell  Place,  as  a  farm,  became  a  hissing,  and  a 
proverb,  and  an  astonishment:  a  circumstance 
so  singularly  at  variance  with  remembered 
thrift  of  the  reputed  owner  as  to  keep  green 
that  owner's  name.  Nor  was  that  all.  As 
youth  became  mature  and  wise,  in  the  sad 
heartrending  fashion  youth  has,  or  flitted  to 
new  hearths,  in  that  other  heartbreaking  way 
of  youth,  it  was  noted  that  leases  were  not  to 
be  renewed  on  any  terms;  and  the  new  ten 
ants,  in  turn,  were  ever  such  light  and  unthrif  t 
folk  as  the  old,  always  with  tall  sons  and  gay 
daughters  —  as  if  the  mythical  agent  or  his 
ghostly  principal  had  set  apart  that  old  house 
to  mirth  and  joy  and  laughter,  to  youth  and 
love.  It  was  remembered  then,  on  certain 
struggling  hill  farms,  that  old  McClintock  had 
been  childless;  and  certain  hill  babies  were 
cuddled  the  closer  for  that. 

Then,  thirty  years  later,  or  forty  —  some 
such  matter  —  McClintock  slipped  back  to 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          157 

Vesper  unheralded  —  very  many  times  a  mil 
lionaire;  incidentally  a  hopeless  invalid,  sen 
tenced  for  life  to  a  wheeled  chair;  Vesper's 
most  successful  citizen. 

Silent,  uncomplaining,  unapproachable,  and 
grim,  he  kept  to  his  rooms  in  the  Iroquois,  old 
est  of  Vesper's  highly  modern  hotels;  or  was 
wheeled  abroad  by  his  one  attendant,  who  was 
valet,  confidant,  factotum,  and  friend  —  Cor 
nelius  Van  Lear,  withered,  parchment-faced, 
and  brown,  strikingly  like  Rameses  II  as  to 
appearance  and  garrulity.  It  was  to  Van  Lear 
that  Vesper  owed  the  known  history  of  those 
forty  years  of  McClintock's.  Closely  ques 
tioned,  the  trusted  confidant  had  once  yielded 
to  cajolery. 

"We've  been  away,"  said  Van  Lear. 

It  was  remarked  that  the  inexplicable 
Mitchell  House  policy  remained  in  force  in  the 
years  since  McClintock's  return;  witness  the 
present  incumbent,  frivolous  Thompson,  for 
eigner  from  Buffalo  —  him  and  his  house 


158          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

parties!  It  was  Mitchell  House  still,  mauger 
the  McClintock  millions  and  a  half -century 
of  possession.  Whether  this  clinging  to  the 
old  name  was  tribute  to  the  free-handed 
Mitchells  or  evidence  of  fine  old  English  firm 
ness  is  a  matter  not  yet  determined. 

The  free-handed  Mitchells  themselves,  as 
a  family,  were  no  more.  They  had  scattered, 
married  or  died,  lost  their  money,  gone  to  work, 
or  otherwise  disappeared.  Vesper  kept  knowl 
edge  of  but  two  of  them:  Lawyer  Oscar,  solid, 
steady,  highly  respectable,  already  in  the  way 
of  becoming  Squire  Mitchell,  and  like  to  better 
the  Mitchell  tradition  of  prosperity  —  a  warm 
man,  a  getting-on  man,  not  to  mention  that 
he  was  the  older  nephew  and  probable  heir  to 
the  McClintock  millions;  and  Oscar's  cousin, 
Stanley,  youngest  nephew  of  the  millions,  who, 
three  years  ago,  had  defied  McClintock  to  his 
face.  Stan  Mitchell  had  always  been  wild, 
even  as  a  boy,  they  said;  they  remembered 
now. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          159 

It  seemed  that  McClintock  had  commanded 
young  Stan  to  break  his  engagement  to  that 
Selden  girl  —  the  schoolma'am  at  Brookfield, 
my  dear  —  one  of  the  hill  people.  There  had 
been  a  terrible  scene.  Earl  Dawson  was  stay 
ing  at  the  Iroquois  and  his  door  happened  to 
be  open  a  little. 

"Then  you'll  get  none  of  my  money!"  said 
the  old  gentleman. 

"To  hell  with  your  money !"  Stan  said,  and 
slammed  the  door. 

He  was  always  a  dreadful  boy,  my  dear!  So 
violent  and  headstrong!  Always  picking  on 
my  poor  Johnny  at  school ;  Johnny  came  home 
once  with  the  most  dreadful  bruise  over  his 
eye  —  Stanley's  work. 

So  young  Stan  flung  away  to  the  West  three 
years  ago.  The  Selden  girl  still  teaches  the 
Brookfield  District;  Stan  Mitchell  writes  to 
her,  the  mail  carrier  says.  No-o;  not  so  bad- 
looking,  exactly  —  in  that  common  sort  of 
way! 


CHAPTER  IX 

FAR  be  it  from  me  to  —  to  — " 
"Cavil  or  carp?" 

"Exactly.  Thank  you.  Beautiful  line! 
Quite  Kipling.  Far  from  me  to  cavil  or  carp, 
Tum-tee-tum-tee-didy,  Or  shift  the  shuttle 
from  web  or  warp.  And  all  for  my  dark-eyed 
lydy!  Far  be  it  from  me,  as  above.  Neverthe 
less—1' 

"Why,  then,  the  exertion?" 

"Duty.  Friendship.  Francis  Charles  Bo- 
land,  you're  lazy." 

"Ferdie,"  said  Francis  Charles,  "you  are 
right.  I  am." 

"Too  lazy  to  defend  yourself  against  the 
charge  of  being  lazy?" 

"Not  at  all.  The  calm  repose;  that  sort  of 
thing  —  what?" 

Mr.  Boland's  face  assumed  the  patient  ex 
pression  of  one  misjudged. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  161 

"Laziness! "  repeated  Ferdie  sternly.  "  'T  is 
a  vice  that  I  abhor.  Slip  me  a  smoke." 

Francis  Charles  fumbled  in  the  cypress  hu 
midor  at  Ferdie's  elbow;  he  leaned  over  the 
table  and  gently  closed  Ferdie's  finger  and 
thumb  upon  a  cigarette. 

"  Match,"  sighed  Ferdie. 

Boland  struck  a  match;  he  held  the  flame  to 
the  cigarette's  end.  Ferdie  puffed.  Then  he 
eyed  his  friend  with  judicial  severity. 

"Abominably  lazy!  Every  opportunity  — 
family,  education  —  brains,  perhaps.  Why 
don't  you  go  to  work?" 

"My  few  and  simple  wants — "  Boland 
waved  his  hand  airily.  "Besides,  who  am  I 
that  I  should  crowd  to  the  wall  some  worthy 
and  industrious  person?  —  practically  taking 
the  bread  from  the  chappie's  mouth,  you 
might  say.  No,  no!"  said  Mr.  Boland  with 
emotion;  "I  may  have  my  faults,  but — " 

"Why  don't  you  go  in  for  politics?" 

"Ferdinand,  little  as  you  may  deem  it,  there 
are  limits." 


162          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"You  have  no  ambition  whatever?" 

"By  that  sin  fell  the  angels  —  and  look  at 
them  now!" 
i    "Why  not  take  a  whirl  at  law?" 

Boland  sat  up  stiffly.  "Mr.  Sedgwick,"  he 
observed  with  exceeding  bitterness,  "you  go 
too  far.  Take  back  your  ring!  Henceforth  we 
meet  as  str-r-r-rangers ! " 

"Ever  think  of  writing?  You  do  enough 
reading,  Heaven  knows." 

Mr.  Boland  relapsed  to  a  sagging  sprawl;  he 
adjusted  his  finger  tips  to  touch  with  delicate 
nicety. 

"Modesty,"  he  said  with  mincing  primness, 
"is  the  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown.  Litter 
and  literature  are  not  identical,  really,  though 
the  superficial  observer  might  be  misled  to 
think  so.  And  yet,  in  a  higher  sense,  perhaps, 
it  may  almost  be  said,  with  careful  limitations, 
that,  considering  certain  delicate  nuances  of 
filtered  thought,  as  it  were,  and  making  metic 
ulous  allowance  for  the  personal  equation  — " 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  163 

" Grisly  ass!  Well,  then,  what's  the  matter 
with  the  army?" 

" My  prudence  is  such,"  responded  Mr.  Bo- 
land  dreamily —  "in  fact,  my  prudence  is  so 
very  such,  indeed  —  one  may  almost  say  so 
extremely  such  —  not  to  mention  the  perti 
nent  and  trenchant  question  so  well  formu 
lated  by  the  little  Peterkin— " 

"Why  don't  you  marry?" 

"Ha!"  said  Francis  Charles. 

"  Whacha  mean  —  '  Ha '  ?  " 

"I  mean  what  the  poet  meant  when  he 
spoke  so  feelingly  of  the 

" eager  boys 

Who  might  have  tasted  girl's  love  and  been  stung." 

"Did  n't  say  it.  Who?" 

"Did,  too!  William  Vaughn  Moody.  So  I 
say  'Ha!'  in  the  deepest  and  fullest  meaning  of 
the  word;  and  I  will  so  defend  it  with  my  life." 

"If  you  were  good  and  married  once,  you 
might  not  be  such  a  fool,"  said  Sedgwick  hope 
fully. 


164          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Take  any  form  but  this"  —  Mr.  Boland  in 
flated  his  chest  and  held  himself  oratorically 
erect  —  "and  my  firm  nerves  shall  never 
tremble!  I  have  tracked  the  tufted  pocolunas 
to  his  lair;  I  have  slain  the  eight-legged  galli- 
wampus;  I  have  bearded  the  wallipaloova  in 
his  noisome  den,  and  gazed  into  the  glaring 
eyeballs  of  the  fierce  Numidian  liar;  and  I'll 
try  everything  once  —  except  this.  But  I  have 
known  too  many  too-charming  girls  too  well. 
To  love  them,"  said  Francis  Charles  sadly, 
4 'was  a  business  education." 

He  lit  a  cigar,  clasped  his  hands  behind  his 
head,  tilted  his  chair  precariously,  and  turned 
a  blissful  gaze  to  the  little  rift  of  sky  beyond 
the  crowding  maples. 

Mr.  Boland  was  neither  tall  nor  short; 
neither  broad  nor  slender;  neither  old  nor 
young.  He  wore  a  thick  mop  of  brown  hair, 
tinged  with  chestnut  in  the  sun.  His  forehead 
was  broad  and  high  and  white  and  shapely. 
His  eyes  were  deep-set  and  wide  apart,  very 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          165 

innocent,  very  large,  and  very  brown,  fringed 
with  long  lashes  that  any  girl  might  envy. 
There  the  fine  chiseling  ceased.  Ensued  a  nose 
bold  and  broad,  freckled  and  inclined  to  pug- 
gishness;  a  wide  and  generous  mouth,  quirky 
as  to  the  corners  of  it;  high  cheek  bones;  and 
a  square,  freckled  jaw  —  all  these  ill-assorted 
features  poised  on  a  strong  and  muscular  neck. 

Sedgwick,  himself  small  and  dark  and  wiry, 
regarded  Mr.  Boland  with  a  scorning  and  dep 
recatory  eye  —  but  with  private  approval. 

"You're  getting  on,  you  know.  You're 
thirty  —  past.  I  warn  you." 

"Ha!11  said  Francis  Charles  again. 

Sedgwick  raised  his  voice  appealingly. 

"Hi,  Thompson!  Here  a  minute!  Should  n't 
Francis  Charles  marry?" 

"Ab-so-lute-ly!"  boomed  a  voice  within. 

The  two  young  men,  it  should  be  said,  sat  on 
the  broad  porch  of  Mitchell  House.  The  boom 
ing  voice  came  from  the  library* 

"Must  n't  Francis  Charles  go  to  work?" 


1 66          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

In  the  library  a  chair  overturned  with  a 
crash.  A  startled  silence;  then  the  sound  of 
swift  feet.  Thompson  came  through  the  open 
French  window;  a  short  man,  with  a  long 
shrewd  face  and  a  frosted  poll.  Feigned  anx 
iety  sat  on  his  brow ;  he  planted  his  feet  firmly 
and  wide  apart,  and  twinkled  down  at  his 
young  guests. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Sedgwick —  I  fear  I  did 
not  catch  your  words  correctly.  You  were  say 
ing-?" 

Francis  Charles  brought  his  chair  to  level 
and  spoke  with  great  feeling: 

"As  our  host,  to  whom  our  bright  young 
lives  have  been  entrusted  for  a  time  —  stand 
ing  to  us,  as  you  do,  almost  as  a  locoed  parent 
—  I  put  it  to  you  —  ' 

"Shut  up!"  roared  Ferdie.  "Thompson, 
you  see  this  —  this  object?  You  hear  it? 
Must  n't  it  go  to  work?" 

"  Ab-so-lutissimusly ! " 

"I     protest    against    this    outrage,"    said 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  167 

Francis  Charles.  " Thompson,  you're  beastly 
sober.  I  appeal  to  your  better  self.  I  am  a 
philosopher.  Sitting  under  your  hospitable 
rooftree,  I  render  you  a  greater  service  by  my 
calm  and  dispassionate  insight  than  I  could 
possibly  do  by  any  ill-judged  activity.  Undis 
turbed  and  undistracted  by  greed,  envy,  am 
bition,  or  desire,  I  see  things  in  their  true  pro 
portion.  A  dreamy  spectator  of  the  world's 
turmoil,  I  do  not  enter  into  the  hectic  hurly- 
burly  of  life;  I  merely  withhold  my  approval 
from  cant,  shams,  prejudice,  formulae,  hypoc 
risy,  and  lies.  Such  is  the  priceless  service  of 
the  philosopher. " 

" Philosopher,  my  foot!"  jeered  Ferdie. 
"  You're  a  brow!  A  solemn  and  sanctimonious 
brow  is  bad  enough,  but  a  sprightly  and  god 
less  brow  is  positive-itutely  the  limit!" 

"That's  absurd,  you  know,"  objected  Fran 
cis  Charles.  "No  man  is  really  irreligious. 
Whether  we  make  broad  the  phylactery  or 
merely  our  minds,  we  are  all  alike  at  heart. 


168          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

The  first  waking  thought  is  invariably,  What 
of  the  day?  It  is  a  prayer  —  unconscious,  un 
spoken,  and  sincere.  We  are  all  sun  worshipers; 
and  when  we  meet  we  invoke  the  sky  —  a  good 
day  to  you;  a  good  night  to  you.  It  is  a  highly 
significant  fact  that  all  conversation  begins 
with  the  weather.  The  weather  is  the  most 
important  fact  in  any  one  day,  and,  therefore, 
the  most  important  fact  in  the  sum  of  our  days. 
We  recognize  this  truth  in  our  greetings;  we 
propitiate  the  dim  and  nameless  gods  of  storm 
and  sky;  we  reverence  their  might,  their  paths 
above  our  knowing.  Nor  is  this  all.  A  fine  day; 
a  bad  day  —  with  the  careless  phrases  we  as 
sent  to  such  tremendous  and  inevitable  im 
plications:  the  helplessness  of  humanity,  the 
brotherhood  of  man,  equality,  democracy. 
For  what  king  or  kaiser,  against  the  implaca 
ble  wind  — " 

Ferdie  rose  and  pawed  at  his  ears  with  both 
hands. 

"  For  the  love  of  the  merciful  angels!  Can 
the  drivel  and  cut  the  drool!" 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          169 

"Those  are  very  good  words,  Sedgwick," 
said  Mr.  Thompson  approvingly.  "The  word 
I  had  on  my  tongue  was  —  balderdash.  But 
your  thought  was  happier.  Balderdash  is  a 
vague  and  shapeless  term.  It  conjures  up  no 
definite  vision.  But  drivel  and  drool  —  very 
excellent  words. " 

Mr.  Thompson  took  a  cigar  and  seated  him 
self,  expectant  and  happy. 

"Boland,  what  did  you  come  here  for,  any 
how?"  demanded  Ferdie  explosively.  "Do  you 
play  tennis?  Do  you  squire  the  girls?  Do  you 
take  a  hand  at  bridge?  Do  you  fish?  Row? 
Swim?  Motor?  Golf?  Booze?  Not  you! 
Might  as  well  have  stayed  in  New  York.  Two 
weeks  now  you  have  perched  oh  a  porch  — 
perched  and  sat,  and  nothing  more.  Dawdle 
and  dream  and  foozle  over  your  musty  old 
books.  Yah!  Highbrow!" 
*  "Little  do  you  wot;  but  I  do  more  —  ah,  far 
more!  —  than  perching  on  this  porch." 

"What  do  you  do?  Mope  and  mowl?  If  so, 


170          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

mowl  for  us.  I  never  saw  anybody  mowl.  Or 
does  one  hear  people  when  they  mowl?" 

"  Naturally  it  would  n't  occur  to  you  —  but 
I  think.  About  things.  Mesopotamia.  The 
spring-time  of  the  world.  Ur  of  the  Chaldees. 
Melchisedec.  Arabia  Felix.  The  Simple  Life; 
and  Why  Men  Leave  Home." 

"  No  go,  Boland,  old  socks! "  said  Thompson. 
"  Our  young  friend  is  right,  you  know.  You  are 
not  practical.  Yo'u  are  booky.  You  are  a 
dreamer.  Get  into  the  game.  Get  busy!  Get 
into  business.  Get  a  wad.  Get!  Found  an 
estate.  Be  somebody!" 

"As  for  me,  I  go  for  a  stroll.  You  give  little 
Frankie  a  pain  in  his  feelings!  For  a  crooked 
tuppence  I  'd  get  somebody  to  wire  me  to  come 
to  New  York  at  once.  —  Uttering  these  in 
trepid  words  the  brave  youth  rose  gracefully 
and,  without  a  glance  at  his  detractors,  saun 
tered  nonchalantly  to  the  gate.  —  Unless,  of 
course,  you  meant  it  for  my  good?"  He  bent 
his  brows  inquiringly. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  171 

"  We  meant  it  —  "  said  Ferdie,  and  paused. 

" —  for  your  good,"  said  Thompson. 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  meant  it  for  my  good!" 
said  Boland  graciously.  "All  the  same,  if  I 
ever  decide  to  'be  somebody,1  I  'm  going  to  be 
Francis  Charles  Boland,  and  not  a  dismal  imi 
tation  of  a  copy  of  some  celebrated  poseur  — 
I'll  tell  you  those!  Speaking  as  a  man  of  lib 
eral —  or  lax  —  morality,  you  surprise  me. 
You  are  godly  and  cleanly  men;  yet,  when  you 
saw  in  me  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene,  did  you 
appeal  to  my  better  nature?  Nary!  In  a  wild 
and  topsy-turvy  world,  did  you  implore  me 
to  devote  my  splendid  and  un wasted  energies 
in  the  service  of  Good,  with  a  capital  G?  Nix! 
You  appealed  to  ambition,  egotism,  and  greed. 
.  .  .  Fie!  A  fie  upon  each  of  you!" 

"Don't  do  that!  Have  mercy!  We  appeal 
to  your  better  nature.  We  repent." 

"All  the  same,  I  am  going  for  my  stroll,  re 
joined  the  youth,  striving  to  repress  his  right 
eous  indignation  out  of  consideration  for  his 


172          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

humiliated  companions,  who  now  —  alas,  too 
late!  —  saw  their  conduct  in  itc  true  light.  For, 
he  continued,  with  a  flashing  look  from  his  in 
telligent  eyes,  I  desire  no  pedestal;  I  am  not 
avaricious.  Be  mine  the  short  and  simple 
flannels  of  the  poor.", 

An  hour  later  Francis  Charles  paused  in  his 
strolling,  cap  in  hand,  and  turned  back  with 
Mary  Selden. 

"How  fortunate !"  he  said.  . 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Miss  Selden.  "Odd,  too, 
considering  that  I  take  this  road  home  every 
evening  after  school  is  out.  And  when  we  re 
flect  that  you  chanced  this  way  last  Thursday 
at  half-past  four  —  and  again  on  Friday  —  it 
amounts  to  a  coincidence." 

"Direction  of  the  subconscious  mind,"  ex 
plained  Francis  Charles,  unabashed.  "Pro 
found  meditation  —  thirst  for  knowledge. 
What  more  natural  than  that  my  heedless  foot 
should  stray,  instinctively  as  it  were,  toward 
the  —  the—  " 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          173 

41  —  old  oaken  schoolhouse  that  stood  in  a 
swamp.  It  is  a  shame,  of  the  burning  variety 
that  a  State  as  wealthy  as  New  York  does  n't 
and  won't  provide  country  schools  with  play 
grounds  big  enough  for  anything  but  tiddledy- 
winks!"  declared  Miss  Selden.  Her  fine  firm 
lip  curled.  Then  she  turned  her  clear  gray 
eyes  upon  Mr.  Boland.  "  Excuse  me  for  in 
terrupting  you,  please." 

"Don't  mention  it!  People  always  have  to 
interrupt  me  when  they  want  to  say  anything. 
And  now  may  I  put  a  question  or  two?  About 
—  geography  —  history  —  that  sort  of  thing? >J 

The  eyes  further  considered  Mr.  Boland. 

"  You  are  not  very  complimentary  to  Mr. 
Thompson's  house  party,  I  think,"  said  Mary 
in  a  cool,  little,  matter-of-fact  voice. 

Altogether  a  cool-headed  and  practical 
young  lady,  this  midget  schoolma'am,  with 
her  uncompromising  directness  of  speech  and 
her  clear  eyes  —  a  merry,  mirthful,  frank, 
dainty,  altogether  delightful  small  person. 


174          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Francis  Charles  stole  an  appreciative  glance 
at  the  trim  and  jaunty  figure  beside  him  and 
answered  evasively: 

"It  was  like  this,  you  know:  Was  reading 
Mark  Twain's  'Life  on  the  Mississippi.1  On 
the  first  page  he  observes  of  that  river  that  it 
draws  its  water  supply  from  twenty-eight 
States,  all  the  way  from  Delaware  to  Idaho. 
I  don't  just  see  it.  Delaware,  you  know  — 
that's  pretty  steep !" 

"If  it  were  not  for  his  reputation  I  should 
suspect  Mr.  Clemens  of  levity,"  said  Mary. 
"Could  it  have  been  a  slip?" 

"No  slip.  It's  repeated.  At  the  end  of  the 
second  chapter  he  says  this  —  I  think  I  have 
it  nearly  word  for  word: '  At  the  meeting  of  the 
waters  from  Delaware  and  from  Itasca,  and 
from  the  mountain  ranges  close  upon  the  Pa 
cific  — '  Now  what  did  he  mean  by  making  this 
very  extraordinary  statement  twice?  Is  there 
a  catch  about  it?  Canals,  or  something?" 

"I  think,  perhaps,"  said  Mary,  "he  meant 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          175 

to  poke  fun  at  our  habit  of  reading  without 
attention  and  of  accepting  statement  as  proof." 

" That's  it,  likely.  But  maybe  there's  a 
joker  about  canals.  Was  n't  there  a  Baltimore 
and  Ohio  Canal?  But  again,  if  so,  how  did 
water  from  Delaware  get  to  Baltimore?  Any 
how,  that 's  how  it  all  began  —  studying  about 
canals.  For,  how  about  this  dry  canal  along 
here?  It  runs  forty  miles  that  I  know  of  — 
I  Ve  seen  that  much  of  it,  driving  Thompson's 
car.  It  must  have  cost  a  nice  bunch  of  money. 
Who  built  it?  When  did  who  build  it?  What 
did  it  cost?  Where  did  it  begin?  Where  did  it 
start  to?  Was  it  ever  finished?  Was  it  ever 
used?  What  was  the  name  of  it?  Nobody  seems 
to  know." 

"I  can't  answer  one  of  those  questions,  Mr. 
Boland." 

"And  you  a  schoolmistress!  Come  now! 
I  '11  give  you  one  more  chance.  What  are  the 
principal  exports  of  Abingdon?" 

"That's  easy.   Let  me  see:  potatoes,  milk, 


176          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

eggs,  butter,  cheese.  And  hay,  lumber,  lath 
and  bark  —  chickens  and  —  and  apples,  ap 
ple  cider  —  rye,  buckwheat,  buckwheat  flour, 
maple  sirup;  pork  and  veal  and  beef;  and — • 
and  that's  all,  I  guess. " 

"Wrong!  I'll  mark  you  fifty  per  cent. 
You've  omitted  the  most  important  item. 
Abingdon  —  and  every  country  town,  I  sup 
pose  —  ships  off  her  young  people  —  to  New 
York;  to  the  factories;  a  few  to  the  West. 
That  is  why  Abingdon  is  the  saddest  place 
I've  ever  seen.  Every  farmhouse  holds  a 
tragedy.  The  young  folk  — 

"They  are  all  gone  away; 

The  house  is  shut  and  still. 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say." 

Mary  Selden  stopped;  she  looked  up  at  her 
companion  thoughtfully.  Seashell  colors  ebbed 
from  her  face  and  left  it  almost  pale. 

"Thank  you  for  reminding  me,"  she  said. 
"There  is  another  bit  of  information  I  think 
you  should  have.  You'll  probably  think  me 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          177 

bold,  forward,  and  the  rest  of  it;  I  can't  help 
that;  you  need  the  knowledge." 

Francis  Charles  groaned. 

"For  my  good,  of  course.  Funny  how  any 
thing  that's  good  for  us  is  always  disagreeable. 
Well,  let 'shave  it!" 

"  It  may  not  be  of  the  slightest  consequence 
to  you,"  began  Mary,  slightly  confused.  "And 
perhaps  you  know  all  about  it  —  any  old 
gossip  could  tell  you.  It's  a  wonder  if  they 
have  n't;  you've  been  here  two  weeks." 

Boland  made  a  wry  face. 

"I  see!  Exports?" 

Mary  nodded,  and  her  brave  eyes  drooped  a 
little. 

"  Abingdon's  finest  export  —  in  my  opinion, 
at  least  —  went  to  Arizona.  And  —  and  he 's 
in  trouble,  Mr.  Boland ;  else  I  might  not  have 
told  you  this.  But  it  seemed  so  horrid  of  me  — 
when  he's  in  such  dreadful  trouble.  So,  now 
you  know." 

0 Arizona?"  said  Boland.    "Why,  there's 


178          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

where  —  Excuse  me;  I  did  n't  mean  to  pry." 
"  Yes,  Stanley  Mitchell.  Only  that  you  stick 
in  your  shell,  like  a  turtle,  you  'd  have  heard 
before  now  that  we  were  engaged.  Are  engaged. 
And  you  must  n't  say  a  word.  No  one  knows 
about  the  trouble  —  not  even  his  uncle.  I  've 
trusted  you,  Mr.  Boland." 

"See  here,  Miss  Selden  —  I'm  really  not  a 
bad  sort.  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  —  here  am  I. 
And  I  lived  in  the  Southwest  four  years,  too  — 
West  Texas  and  New  Mexico.  Best  time  I  ever 
had!  So  I  would  n't  be  absolutely  helpless  out 
there.  And  I'm  my  own  man  —  foot-loose. 
So,  if  you  can  use  me  —  for  this  thing  seems 
to  be  serious — " 

11  Serious!"  said  Mary.  "Serious!  I  can't 
tell  you  now.  I  should  n't  have  told  you  even 
this  much.  Go  now,  Mr.  Boland.  And  if  we  — 
if  I  see  where  I  can  use  you  —  that  was  your 
word  —  I  '11  use  you.  But  you  are  to  keep 
away  from  me  unless  I  send  for  you.  Suppose 
Stan  heard  now  what  some  gossip  or  other 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  179 

might  very  well  write  to  him  —  that  '  Mary 
Selden  walked  home  every  night  with  a  fasci 
nating  Francis  Charles  Boland'?" 

"Tell  him  about  me,  yourself — touching 
lightly  on  my  fascinations,"  advised  Boland. 
"And  tell  him  why  you  tell  him.  Plain  speak 
ing  is  always  the  best  way." 

"  It  is,"  said  Mary.  "  I  '11  do  that  very  thing 
this  night.  I  think  I  like  you,  Mr.  Boland. 
Thank  you  —  and  good-bye!" 

"Good-bye!"  said  Boland,  touching  her 
hand. 

He  looked  after  her  as  she  went. 

"Plucky  little  devil!"  he  said.  "Level  and 
straight  and  square.  Some  girl!" 


CHAPTER  X 

MR.  OSCAR  MITCHELL,  attorney  and 
counselor  at  law,  sauntered  down  River 
Street,  with  the  cheerful  and  optimistic  poise 
of  one  who  has  lunched  well.  A  well-set-up 
man,  a  well-groomed  man,  as-it-is-done;  plainly 
worshipful;  worthy  the  highest  degree  of  that 
most  irregular  of  adjectives,  respectable;  com 
parative,  smart;  superlative,  correct. 

Mr.  Mitchell  was  correct;  habited  after  the 
true  Polonian  precept;  invisible,  every  buckle, 
snap,  clasp,  strap,  wheel,  axle,  wedge,  pulley, 
lever,  and  every  other  mechanical  device 
known  to  science,  was  in  place  and  of  the  best. 
As  to  adornment,  all  in  good  taste  —  scarfpin, 
an  unpretentious  pearl  in  platinum;  garnet 
links,  severely  plain  and  quiet;  an  unobtrusive 
watch-chain;  one  ring,  a  small  emerald;  no  ear 
rings. 

Mr.  Mitchell's  face  was  well  shaped,  not 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  181 

quite  plump  pr  pink,  with  the  unlined  curves, 
the  smooth  clear  skin,  and  the  rosy  glow  that 
comes  from  health  and  virtue,  or  from  good 
living  and  massage.  Despite  fifty  years,  or 
near  it,  the  flax-smooth  hair  held  no  glint  of 
gray;  his  eyes,  blue  and  big  and  wide,  were 
sharp  and  bright,  calm,  confident,  almost  can 
did  —  not  quite  the  last,  because  of  a  roving 
trick  of  clandestine  observation;  his  mouth, 
where  it  might  or  should  have  curved  —  must 
once  have  curved  in  boyhood  —  was  set  and 
guarded,  even  in  skillful  smilings,  by  a  long 
censorship  of  undesirable  facts,  material  or 
otherwise  to  any  possible  issue. 

Mr.  Mitchell's  whole  bearing  was  confident 
and  assured;  his  step,  for  all  those  fifty  afore 
said  years,  was  light  and  elastic,  even  in  saun 
tering  ;  he  took  the  office  stairs  with  the  inimi 
table  sprightly  gallop  of  the  town-bred. 

Man  is  a  quadruped  who  has  learned  to  use 
his  front  legs  for  other  things  than  walking. 
Some  hold  that  he  has  learned  to  use  his  head. 


1 82          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

But  there  are  three  things  man  cannot  do,  and 
four  which  he  cannot  compass:  to  see,  to  think, 
to  judge,  and  to  act — to  see  the  obvious;  to 
think  upon  the  thing  seen;  to  judge  between 
our  own  resultant  and  conflicting  thoughts, 
with  no  furtive  finger  of  desire  to  tip  the  bal 
ance;  and  to  act  upon  that  judgment  without 
flinching.  We  fear  the  final  and  irretrievable 
calamity:  we  fear  to  make  ourselves  conspicu 
ous,  we  conform  to  standard,  we  bear  our 
selves  meekly  in  that  station  whereunto  it  hath 
pleased  Heaven  to  call  us;  the  herd  instinct 
survives  four-footedness.  For,  we  note  the 
strange  but  not  the  familiar;  our  thinking  is  to 
right  reason  what  peat  is  to  coal;  the  outcry 
of  the  living  and  the  dead  perverts  judgment, 
closes  the  ear  to  proof;  and  our  wisest  fear  the 
scorn  of  fools.  So  we  walk  cramped  and 
strangely  under  the  tragic  tyranny  of  reitera 
tion  :  whatever  is  is  right ;  whatever  is  repeated 
often  enough  is  true;  and  logic  is  a  device  for 
evading  the  self-evident.  Moreover,  Carthage 
should  be  destroyed. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  183 

Such  sage  reflections  present  themselves  au 
tomatically,  contrasting  the  blithesome  knee 
action  of  prosperous  Mr.  Mitchell  with  the 
stiffened  joints  of  other  men  who  had  climbed 
those  hard  stairs  on  occasion  with  shambling 
step,  bent  backs  and  sagging  shoulders;  with 
faces  lined  and  interlined;  with  eyes  dulled 
and  dim,  and  sunken  cheeks;  with  hands  mis 
shapen,  knotted  and  bent  by  toil:  if  image 
indeed  of  God,  strangely  distorted  —  or  a 
strange  God. 

Consider  now,  in  a  world  yielding  enough 
and  to  spare  for  all,  the  endless  succession  of 
wise  men,  from  the  Contributing  Editor  of 
Proverbs  unto  this  day,  who  have  hymned  the 
praise  of  diligence  and  docility,  the  scorn  of 
sloth.  Yet  not  one  sage  of  the  bountiful  bunch 
has  ever  ventured  to  denounce  the  twin  vices 
of  industry  and  obedience.  True,  there  is  the 
story  of  blind  Samson  at  the  mill;  perhaps  a 
parable. 

Underfed  and  overworked  for  generations, 


1 84          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

starved  from  birth,  starved  before  birth,  we 
drive  and  harry  and  crush  them,  the  weakling 
and  his  weaker  sons;  we  exploit  them,  gull 
them,  poison  them,  lie  to  them,  filch  from 
them.  We  crowd  them  into  our  money  mills; 
we  deny  them  youth,  we  deny  them  rest,  we 
deny  them  opportunity,  we  deny  them  hope, 
or  any  hope  of  hope;  and  we  provide  for  age  — 
the  poorhouse.  So  that  charity  is  become  of 
all  words  the  most  feared,  most  hated,  most 
loathed  and  loathsome;  worse  than  crime  or 
shame  or  death.  We  have  left  them  from  the 
work  of  their  hands  enough,  scantly  enough,  to 
keep  breath  within  their  stunted  bodies.  "All 
the  traffic  can  bear ! "  —  a  brazen  rule.  Of  such 
sage  policy  the  result  can  be  seen  in  the  wiz 
ened  and  undersized  submerged  of  London; 
of  nearer  than  London.  Man,  by  not  taking 
thought,  has  taken  a  cubit  from  his  stature. 

Meantime  we  prate  comfortable  blasphe 
mies,  scientific  or  other;  natural  selection  or  the 
inscrutable  decrees  of  God.  Whereas  this  was 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          185 

manifestly  a  Hobson's  selection,  most  unnat 
ural  and  forced,  to  choose  want  of  all  that 
makes  life  sweet  and  dear;  to  choose  gaunt 
babes,  with  pinched  and  livid  lips  —  unlovely* 
not  unloved;  and  these  iniquitous  decrees  are 
most  scrutable,  are  surely  of  man's  devising 
and  not  of  God's.  Or  we  invent  a  fire-new 
science,  known  as  Eugenics,  to  treat  the  dis 
ease  by  new  naming  of  symptoms;  and  prattle 
of  the  well  born,  when  we  mean  well  fed ;  or  the 
degenerate,  when  we  might  more  truly  say  the 
disinherited. 

It  is  even  held  by  certain  poltroons  that 
families  have  been  'started  gutterward,  of  late 
centuries,  when  a  father  has  been  gloriously 
slain  in  the  wars  of  the  useless  great.  That 
such  a  circumstance,  however  glorious,  may 
have  been  rather  disadvantageous  than  other 
wise  to  children  thereby  sent  out  into  the 
world  at  six  or  sixteen  years,  lucky  to  become 
ditch-diggers  or  tip-takers.  That  some  pro 
portion  of  them  do  become  beggars,  thieves, 


1 86          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

paupers,  sharpers,  other  things  quite  unfit  for 
the  ear  of  the  young  person  —  a  disconcerting 
consideration;  such  ears  cannot  be  too  care 
fully  guarded.  That,  though  the  occupations 
named  are  entirely  normal  to  all  well-ordered 
states,  descendants  of  persons  in  those  occu 
pations  tend  to  become  "subnormal"  —  so 
runs  the  cant  of  it  —  something  handicapped 
by  that  haphazard  bullet  of  a  lifetime  since, 
fired  to  advance  the  glorious  cause  of  —  for 
eign  commerce,  or  the  like. 

Mr.  Mitchell  occupied  five  rooms  lined 
with  law  books  and  musty  with  the  smell  of 
leather.  These  rooms  ranged  end  to  end,  each 
with  a  door  that  opened  upon  a  dark  hallway; 
a  waiting-room  in  front,  the  private  office  at 
the  rear,  to  which  no  client  was  ever  admitted 
directly.  Depressed  by  delay,  subdued  by  an 
overflow  of  thick  volumes,  when  he  reaches 
a  suitable  dejection  he  is  tiptoed  through  dis 
mal  antechambers  of  wisdom,  appalled  by  tall 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  187 

bookstacks,  ushered  into  the  leather-chaired 
office,  and  there  further  crushed  by  long 
shelves  of  dingy  tin  boxes,  each  box  crowded 
with  weighty  secrets  and  shelved  papers  of 
fabulous  moment  and  urgency;  the  least 
paper  of  the  smallest  box  more  important  — 
the  unfortunate  client  is  clear  on  that  point 
—  than  any  contemptible  need  of  his  own. 
Cowed  and  chastened,  he  is  now  ready  to  pay 
a  fee  suitable  to  the  mind  that  has  absorbed 
all  the  wisdom  of  those  many  bookshelves;  or 
meekly  to  accept  as  justice  any  absurdity  or 
monstrosity  of  the  law. 

Mr.  Mitchell  was  greeted  by  a  slim,  swarthy, 
black-eyed,  elderly  person  of  twenty-five  or 
thirty,  with  a  crooked  nose  and  a  crooked 
mind,  half  clerk  and  half  familiar  spirit  —  Mr. 
Joseph  Pelman,  to  wit;  who  appeared  perpet 
ually  on  the  point  of  choking  himself  by  sup 
pressed  chucklings  at  his  principal's  cleverness 
and  the  simplicity  of  dupes. ' 

11  Well,  Joe?  " 


188          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Two  to  see  you,  sir/'  said  Joe,  his  face  lit 
up  with  sprightly  malice.  "On  the  same  lay. 
That  Watkins  farm  of  yours.  I  got  it  out  of 
'em.  Ho,  ho!  I  kept  'em  in  different  rooms.  I 
hunted  up  their  records  in  your  record  books. 
Doomsday  Books,  /  call  'em.  Ho,  ho!" 

Mr.  Mitchell  selected  a  cigar,  lit  it,  puffed 
it,  and  fixed  his  eye  on  his  demon  clerk. 

"Now  then,"  he  said  sharply,  "let's  have 
it!" 

The  demon  pounced  on  a  Brobdingnagian 
volume  upon  the  desk  and  worried  it  open  at  a 
marker.  It  had  been  meant  for  a  ledger,  that 
huge  volume;  the  gray  cloth  covers  bore  the 
legend  "  N  to  Z."  Ledger  it  was,  of  a  grim  sort, 
with  sinister  entries  of  forgotten  sins,  the  item 
ized  strength  or  weakness  of  a  thousand  men. 
The  confidential  clerk  ran  a  long,  confidential 
finger  along  the  spidery  copperplate  index  of 
the  W's:  " Wakelin,  Walcott,  Walker,  Wallace, 
Walsh  — Walters;  Earl,  John,  Peter,  Ray, 
Rex,  Roy  —  Samuel  —  page  1 124."  His  nim- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          189 

ble  hands  flew  at  the  pages  like  a  dog  at  a 
woodchuck  hole. 

"Here  't  is — 'Walters,  Samuel:  born  '69, 
son  of  John  Walters,  Holland  Hill;  religion  — 
politics*  —  um-um  —  'bad  habits,  none;  two 
years  Vesper  Academy;  three  years  Dennison 
shoe  factories;  married  1896  —  one  child,  b. 
1899.  Bought  Travis  Farm  1898,  paying  half 
down;  paid  balance  out  in  five  years;  dairy, 
fifteen  cows;  forehanded,  thrifty/  Humph! 
Good  pay,  I  guess/' 

He  cocked  his  head  to  one  side  and  eyed  his 
employer,  fingering  a  wisp  of  black  silk  on  his 
upper  lip. 

"And  the  other?" 

The  second  volume  was  spread  open  upon 
the  desk.  Clerk  Pelman  flung  himself  upon  it 
with  savage  fury. 

'"Bowen,  Chauncey,  son  William  Bowen, 
born  1872'  —  um-um  —  'married  Louise  Hill 
'92'  —  um  —  'divorced  '96;  married  Laura 
Wing  '96  —  see  Lottie  Hall.  Ran  hotel  at 


190          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Larren  '95  to  '97;  sheriff's  sale  '97;  worked 
Bowen  Farm  '97  to  1912;  bought  Eagle  Hotel, 
Vesper,  after  death  of  William  Bowen,  1900. 
Traded  Eagle  Hotel  for  Griffin  Farm,  1912; 
sold  Griffin  Farm,  1914;  clerk  Simon's  hard 
ware  store,  Emmonsville,  Pennsylvania.  Heavy 
drinker,  though  seldom  actually  drunk;  sus 
pected  of  some  share  in  the  Powers  affair  — 
or  some  knowledge,  at  least;  poker  fiend.  Bank 
note  protested  and  paid  by  endorser  1897,  and 
again  in  1902;  has  since  repaid  endorsers.  See 
Larren.Hotel,  Eagle  Hotel.1" 

"Show  him  in,"  said  Mitchell. 

"Walters?"  The  impish  clerk  cocked  his 
head  on  one  side  again  and  gulped  down  a 
chuckle  at  his  own  wit. 

"Bowen,  fool!  Jennie  Page,  his  mother's 
sister,  died  last  week  and  left  him  a  legacy  — 
twelve  hundred  dollars.  I  '11  have  that  out  of 
him,  or  most  of  it,  as  a  first  payment." 

The  clerk  turned,  his  mouth  twisted  awry 
to  a  malicious  grin. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          191 

"Trust  you!"  be  chuckled  admiringly,  and 
laid  a  confidential  finger  beside  his  crooked 
nose.  "Ho,  ho!  This  is  the  third  time  you've 
sold  the  Watkins  Farm;  and  it  won't  be  the 
last!  Oh,  you're  a  rare  one,  you  are!  Four 
farms  you  Ve  got  —  and  the  way  you  got  ?em 
—  ho!  You  go  Old  Benjamin  one  better,  you 
do. 

"Whoso  by  the  plow  would  thrive 
Himself  must  neither  hold  nor  drive. 

A  regular  hard  driver,  you  are!" 

"Some  fine  day,"  answered  Mitchell  com 
posedly,  "you  will  exhaust  my  patience  and  I 
shall  have  to  let  you  be  hanged ! " 

"  No  fear ! "  rejoined  the  devil  clerk,  amiably. 
41  I'm  too  useful.  I  do  your  dirty  work  for  you 
and  leave  you  always  with  clean  hands  to  show. 
Who  stirs  up  damage  suits?  Joe.  Who  digs  up 
the  willing  witness?  J.  Pelman.  Who  finds 
skeletons  in  respectable  closets?  Joey.  Who 
is  the  go-between?  Joseph.  I'm  trusty,  too  — 
because  I  dare  not  be  otherwise.  And  because 


IQ2          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

I  like  the  work.  I  like  to  see  you  skin  'em, 
I  do.  Fools!  And  because  you  give  me  a  fair 
share  of  the  plunder.  Princely,  I  call  it  —  and 
wise.  You  be  advised,  Lawyer  Mitchell,  and 
always  give  me  my  fair  share.  Hang  Joey? 
Oh,  no!  Never  do!  No  fear!"  A  spasm  of 
chuckles  cut  him  short. 

"Go  on,  fool,  and  bring  Bowen  in.  Then 
tell  Walters  the  farm  is  already  sold." 

The  door  closed  behind  the  useful  Joseph, 
and  immediately  popped  open  again  in  the 
most  startling  fashion. 

"No;  nor  that,  either,"  said  Joseph. 

He  closed  the  door  softly  and  leaned  against 
it,  cocking  his  head  on  one  side  with  an  evil 
smile. 

His  employer  glanced  at  him  with  uninquir- 
ing  eyes. 

"You  won't  ask  what,  hey?  No?  But  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  were  thinking  of:  Dropping 
me  off  the  bridge.  Upsetting  the  boat.  The 
like  of  that.  Can't  have  it.  I  can't  afford  it. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  193 

You're  too  liberal.  Why,  I  wouldn't  crawl 
under  your  car  to  repair  it  —  or  go  hunting 
with  you  —  not  if  it  was  ever  so!" 

"I  really  believe,"  said  Mr.  Mitchell  with 
surprised  eyebrows,  "that  you  are  keeping  me 
waiting!" 

"That  is  why  I  never  throw  out  hints  about 
a  future  partnership,"  continued  the  confiden 
tial  man,  undaunted.  "You  are  such  a  liberal 
paymaster.  Lord  love  you,  sir,  I  don't  want 
any  partnership!  This  suits  me.  You  furnish 
the  brains  and  the  respectability;  I  take  the 
risk,  and  I  get  my  fair  share.  Then,  if  I  should 
ever  get  caught,  you  are  unsmirched ;  you  can 
keep  on  making  money.  And  you'll  keep  on 
giving  me  my  share.  Oh,  yes;  you  will!  You  Ve 
such  a  good  heart,  Mr.  Oscar!  I  know  you. 
You  wouldn't  want  old  Joey  hanged!  Not 
you!  Oh,  no!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  STRANGER  came  to  Abingdon  by  the 
-/jL  morning  train.  Because  of  a  wide- 
brimmed  gray  hat,  which  he  wore  pushed  well 
back,  to  testify  against  burning  suns  elsewhere 
—  where  such  hats  must  be  pulled  well  down, 
of  necessity  —  a  few  Abingdonians,  in  passing, 
gave  the  foreigner  the  tribute  of  a  backward 
glance.  A  few  only;  Abingdon  has  scant  time 
for  curiosity.  Abingdon  works  hard  for  a  liv 
ing,  like  Saturday's  child,  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  days  a  year;  except  every  fourth 
year. 

Aside  from  the  hat,  the  foreigner  might  have 
been,  for  apparel,  a  thrifty  farmer  on  a  trip 
to  his  market  town.  He  wore  a  good  ready- 
made  suit,  a  soft  white  shirt  with  a  soft  collar, 
and  a  black  tie,  shot  with  red.  But  an  observer 
would  have  seen  that  this  was  no  care-lined 
farmer  face;  that,  though  the  man  himself  was 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  195 

small,  his  feet  were  disproportionately  and  ab 
surdly  small;  that  his  toes  pointed  forward  as 
he  walked;  and  detraction  might  have  called 
him  bow-legged.  This  was  Mr.  Peter  Johnson. 

Mr.  Johnson  took  breakfast  at  the  Abing- 
don  Arms.  He  expressed  to  the  landlord  of 
that  hostelry  a  civil  surprise  and  gratification 
at  the  volume  of  Abingdon's  business,  evinced 
by  a  steadily  swelling  current  of  early  morn 
ing  wagons,  laden  with  produce,  on  their  way 
to  the  station,  or,  by  the  river  road,  to  the 
factory  towns  near  by;  was  assured  that  he 
should  come  in  the  potato-hauling  season  if  he 
thought  that  was  busy;  parried  a  few  polite 
questions;  and  asked  the  way  to  the  Selden 
Farm. 

He  stayed  at  the  Selden  Farm  that  day  and 
that  night.  Afternoon  of  the  next  day  found 
him  in  Lawyer  Mitchell's  waiting-room,  at 
Vesper,  immediate  successor  of  Mr.  Chauncey 
Bowen,  then  engaged  in  Lawyer  Mitchell's 
office  on  the  purchase  of  the  Watkins  Farm; 


196     -     COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

and  he  was  presently  ushered  into  the  presence 
of  Mr.  Mitchell  by  the  demon  clerk. 

Mr.  Mitchell  greeted  him  affably. 

"Good-day,  sir.  What  can  I  do  for  you 
to-day?" 

"Mr.  Oscar  Mitchell,  is  it?" 

"The  same,  and  happy  to  serve  you." 

"Got  a  letter  for  you  from  your  cousin, 
Stan.  My  name's  Johnson." 

Mitchell  extended  his  hand,  gave  Pete  a 
grip  of  warm  welcome. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Johnson. 
Take  a  chair  —  this  big  one  is  the  most  com 
fortable.  And  how  is  Stanley?  A  good  boy;  I 
am  very  fond  of  him.  But,  to  be  honest  about 
it,  he  is  a  wretched  correspondent.  I  have  not 
heard  from  him  since  Christmas,  and  then 
barely  a  line  —  the  compliments  of  the  season. 
What  is  he  doing  with  himself?  Does  he  pros 
per?  And  why  did  he  not  come  himself?" 

"As  far  as  making  money  is  concerned,  he 
stands  to  make  more  than  he'll  ever  need,  as 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          197 

you'll  see  when  you  read  his  letter,"  said  Pete. 
" Otherwise  he's  only  just  tol'able.  Fact  is, 
he's  confined  to  his  room.  That's  why  I  come 
to  do  this  business  for  him." 

"Stanley  sick?  Dear,  dear!  What  is  it? 
Nothing  serious,  I  hope!" 

"Why,  no-o  —  not  to  say  sick,  exactly.  He 
just  can't  seem  to  get  out  o'  doors  very  handy. 
He's  sorter  on  a  diet,  you  might  say." 

"Too  bad;  too  bad!  He  should  have  written 
his  friends  about  it.  None  of  us  knew  a  word 
of  it.  I  '11  write  to  him  to-night  and  give  him  a 
good  scolding." 

"Aw,  don't  ye  do  that!"  said  Pete,  twisting 
his  hat  in  embarrassment.  "I  don't  want  he 
should  know  I  told  you.  He's  —  he's  kind  of 
sensitive  about  it.  He  would  n't  want  it  men 
tioned  to  anybody." 

"It's  not  his  lungs,  I  hope?" 

"Naw!  Nothin'  like  that.  I  reckon  what's 
ailin'  him  is  mostly  stayin'  too  long  in  one 
place.  Nothin'  serious.  Don't  ye  worry  one 


198          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

mite  about  him.  Change  of  scene  is  what  he 
needs  mare  than  anything  else  —  and  horse 
back  ridin'.  I  '11  yank  him  out  of  that  soon  as  I 
get  back.  And  now  suppose  you  read  his  letter. 
It's  mighty  important  to  us.  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  me  and  Stan  is  pardners.  And  I  'm  free  to 
say  I'm  anxious  to  see  how  you  take  to  his 
proposition." 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,  then?" 

Mitchell  seated  himself,  opened  the  letter, 
and  ran  over  it.  It  was  brief.  Refolding  it, 
the  lawyer  laid  it  on  the  table  before  him, 
tapped  it,  and  considered  Mr.  Johnson  with 
regarding  eyes.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was 
more  friendly  than  ever. 

"Stanley  tells  me  here  that  you  two  have 
found  a  very  rich  mine." 

"Mr.  Mitchell,"  said  Pete,  leaning  forward 
in  his  eagerness,  "I  reckon  that  mine  of  ours 
is  just  about  the  richest  strike  ever  found  in 
Arizona!  Of  course  it  ain't  rightly  a  mine  — 
it's  only  where  a  mine  is  goin'  to  be.  Just  a 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  199 

claim.  There's  nothin'  done  to  it  yet.  But  it's 
sure  goin'  to  be  a  crackajack.  There's  a  whole 
solid  mountain  of  high-grade  copper." 

''Stanley  says  he  wants  me  to  finance  it.  He 
offers  to  refund  all  expenses  if  the  mine  —  if 
the  claim"  —  Mitchell  smiled  cordially  as  he 
made  the  correction  —  "does  not  prove  all  he 
represents." 

"Well,  that  ought  to  make  you  safe.  Stan's 
got  a  right  smart  of  property  out  there.  I 
don't  know  how  he's  fixed  back  here.  Mr. 
Mitchell,  if  you  don't  look  into  this,  you  '11  be 
missin'  the  chance  of  your  life." 

"But  if  the  claim  is  so  rich,  why  do  you 
need  money?" 

"You  don't  understand.  This  copper  is  in 
the  roughest  part  of  an  awful  rough  moun 
tain  —  right  on  top,"  said  Pete,  most  untruth 
fully.  "That's  why  nobody  ain't  ever  found  it 
before  —  because  it  is  so  rough.  It'll  cost  a 
heap  of  money  just  to  build  a  wagon  road  up 
to  it  —  as  much  as  five  or  six  thousand  dollars, 


200          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

maybe.  Stan  and  me  can't  handle  it  alone. 
We  got  to  take  some  one  in,  and  we  gave  you 
the  first  show.  And  I  wish/'  said  Pete  ner 
vously,  "that  you  could  see  your  way  to  come 
in  with  us  and  go  right  back  with  me,  at  once. 
We're  scared  somebody  else  might  find  it  and 
make  a  heap  of  trouble.  There's  some  mighty 
mean  men  out  there." 

"Have  a  cigar?"  said  the  lawyer,  opening  a 
desk  drawer. 

He  held  a  match  for  his  visitor  and  observed, 
with  satisfaction,  that  Pete's  hand  shook. 
Plainly  here  was  a  simple-minded  person  who 
would  be  as  wax  in  his  skillful  hands. 

Mitchell  smoked  for  a  little  while  in  thought 
ful  silence.  Then,  with  his  best  straightfor 
ward  look,  he  turned  and  faced  Pete  across 
the  table. 

"I  will  be  plain  with  you,  Mr.  Johnson. 
This  is  a  most  unusual  adventure  for  me.  I  am 
a  man  who  rather  prides  himself  that  he  makes 
no  investments  that  are  not  conservative.  But 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          201 

Stan  is  my  cousin,  and  he  has  always  been  the 
soul  of  honor.  His  word  is  good  with  me.  I 
may  even  make  bold  to  say  that  you,  yourself, 
have  impressed  me  favorably.  In  short,  you 
may  consider  me  committed  to  a  thorough  in 
vestigation  of  your  claim.  After  that,  we  shall 


see." 


"  You  '11  never  regret  it,"  said  Pete.  "Shake! " 

"I  suppose  you  are  not  commissioned  to 
make  any  definite  proposal  as  to  terms,  in 
case  the  investigation  terminates  as  favorably 
as  you  anticipate?  At  any  rate,  this  is  an 
early  day  to  speak  of  final  adjustments." 

"No,"  said  Pete,  "I  ain't.  You '11  have  to 
settle  that  with  Stan.  Probably  you'll  want 
to  sign  contracts  and  things.  I  don't  know 
nothin'  about  law.  But  there's  plenty  for  all. 
I'm  sure  of  one  thing  —  you'll  be  glad  to 
throw  in  with  us  on  'most  any  terms  once  you 
see  that  copper,  and  have  a  lot  of  assays  made 
and  get  your  expert's  report  on  it." 

"I  hope  so,  I  am  sure.  Stanley  seems  very 


202          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

confident.  But  I  fear  I  shall  have  to  disappoint 
you  in  one  particular:  I  can  hardly  leave  my 
business  here  at  loose  ends  and  go  back  with 
you  at  once,  as,  I  gather,  is  your  desire." 

Pete 's  face  fell. 

"How  long  will  it  take  you?" 

"Let  me  consider.  I  shall  have  to  arrange 
for  other  lawyers  to  appear  for  me  in  cases  now 
pending,  which  will  imply  lengthy  consulta 
tions  and  crowded  days.  It  will  be  very  incon 
venient  and  may  not  have  the  happiest  results. 
But  I  will  do  the  best  I  can  to  meet  your  wishes, 
and  will  stretch  a  point  in  your  favor,  hoping 
it  may  be  remembered  when  we  come  to  dis 
cuss  final  terms  with  each  other.  Shall  we  say 
a  week?"  He  tapped  his  knuckles  with  the 
folded  letter  and  added  carelessly:  "And,  of 
course,  I  shall  have  to  pack,  and  all  that.  You 
must  advise  me  as  to  suitable  clothing  for 
roughing  it.  How  far  is  your  mine  from  the 
railroad?" 

"Oh,  not  far.    About  forty  mile.    Yes,  I 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          203 

guess  I  can  wait  a  week.    I  stand  the  hotel 
grub  pretty  well." 

"Where  are  you  staying,  Mr.  Johnson? " 
"The  Algonquin.  Pretty  nifty." 
"Good  house.  And  how  many  days  is  it  by 
rail  to  —  Bless  my  soul,  Mr.  Johnson  —  here 
am  I,  upsetting  my  staid  life,  deserting  my 
business  on  what  may  very  well  prove,  after 
all,  but  a  wild-goose  chase!  And  I  do  not  know 
to  what  place  in  Arizona  we  are  bound,  even 
as  a  starting-point  and  base  of  supplies,  much 
less  where  your  mine  is!  And  I  don't  suppose 
there's  a  map  of  Arizona  in  town." 

"Oh,  I'll  make  you  a  map,"  said  Pete. 
"  Cobre  —  that 's  Mexican  for  copper  —  is 
where  we'll  make  our  headquarters.  You 
give  me  some  paper  and  I  '11  make  you  a 
map  mighty  quick." 

Pete  made  a  sketchy  but  fairly  accurate  map 
of  Southern  Arizona,  with  the  main  lines  of 
railroad  and  the  branches. 

"Here's  Silverbell,  at  the  end  of  this  little 


204          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

spur  of  railroad.  Now  give  me  that  other 
sheet  of  paper  and  I'll  show  you  where  the 
mine  is,  and  the  country  round  Cobre." 

Wetting  his  pencil,  working  with  slow  and 
painstaking  effort,  making  slight  erasures  and 
corrections  with  loving  care,  poor,  trustful, 
unsuspecting  Pete  mapped  out,  with  true 
creative  joy,  a  district  that  never  was  on  land 
or  sea,  accompanying  each  stroke  of  his  handi 
work  with  verbal  comments,  explaining  each 
original  mountain  chain  or  newly  invented 
valley  with  a  wealth  of  descriptive  detail  that 
would  have  amazed  Miinchausen. 

Mitchell  laughed  in  his  heart  to  see  how 
readily  the  simple-minded  mountaineer  be 
came  his  dupe  and  tool,  and  watched,  with  a 
covert  sneer,  as  Pete  joyously  contrived  his 
own  downfall  and  undoing. 

"  I  have  many  questions  to  ask  about  your 
mine  —  I  believe  I  had  almost  said  our  mine." 
The  lawyer  smiled  cordially.  "To  begin  with, 
how  about  water  and  fuel?" 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          205 

11  Lots  of  it.  A  cedar  brake,  checker- boarded 
all  along  the  mountain.  There's  where  it  gets 
the  name,  Ajedrez  Mountain  —  Chess  Moun 
tain;  kind  of  laid  out  in  squares  that  way. 
Good  enough  for  mine  timbers,  too.  Big 
spring  —  big  enough  so  you  might  almost 
call  it  a  creek  —  right  close  by.  It's  almost 
too  good  to  be  true  —  could  n't  be  handier  if 
I'd  dreamed  it!  But,"  he  added  with  regretful 
conscientiousness,  "the  water's  pretty  hard, 
I'm  sorry  to  say.  Most  generally  is,  around 
copper  that  way.  And  it'll  have  to  be  pumped 
uphill  to  the  mine.  Too  bad  the  spring 
could  n't  have  been  above  the  mine,  so  it  could 
have  been  piped  down." 

Prompted  by  more  questions  he  plunged 
into  a  glowing  description  of  Ajedrez  Moun 
tain;  the  marvelous  scope  of  country  to  be 
seen  from  the  summit;  the  beauty  of  its  steep 
and  precipitous  canons;  the  Indian  pottery; 
the  mysterious  deposit  of  oyster  shells,  high 
on  the  mountain-side,  proving  conclusively 


206          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

that  Ajedrez  Mountain  had  risen  from  the 
depths  of  some  prehistoric  sea;  ending  with  a 
vivid  description  of  the  obstacles  to  be  sur 
mounted  by  each  of  the  alternate  projects  for 
the  wagon  road  up  to  the  mine,  with  estimates 
of  comparative  cost. 

At  length  it  drew  on  to  the  hour  for 
Mitchell's  dinner  and  Pete's  supper,  and  they 
parted  with  many  expressions  of  elation  and 
good- will. 

From  his  window  in  the  Algonquin,  Pete 
Johnson  watched  Mitchell  picking  his  way 
across  to  the  Iroquois  House,  and  smiled  grimly. 

1 ' There,"  he  confided  to  his  pipe —  " there 
goes  a  man  hotfoot  to  dig  his  own  grave  with 
his  own  tongue !  The  Selden  kid  has  done  told 
Uncle  McClintock  about  Stan  being  in  jail. 
She  told  him  Stan  had  n't  written  to  Cousin 
Oscar  about  no  jail,  and  that  I  was  n't  to  tell 
him  either.  Now  goes  Cousin  Oscar  on  a  bee- 
line  to  tell  Uncle  how  dreadful  Stanley  has 
went  and  disgraced  the  family;  and  Uncle  will 
want  to  know  how  he  heard  of  it.  'Why/  sayp 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          207 

Oscar,  'an  old  ignoramus  from  Arizona,  named 
Johnson  —  friend  of  Stanley's  —  he  told  me 
about  it.  He  came  up  here  to  get  me  to  help 
Stanley  out;  wanted  me  to  go  out  and  be  his 
lawyer!' 

"And,  right  there,  down  goes  Cousin  Oscar's 
meat-house!  He'll  never  touch  a  penny  of 
Uncle's  moaey.  Selden,  she  says  Uncle  Mac 
was  all  for  blowing  him  up  sky-high;  but  she 
made  him  promise  not  to,  so  as  not  to  queer 
my  game.  If  I  get  Oscar  Mitchell  out  to  the 
desert,  I  '11  almost  persuade  him  to  be  a  Chris 
tian.  . .  .  She's  got  Old  McClintock  on  the  run, 
Mary  Selden  has! 

"Shucks!  The  minute  I  heard  about  the 
millionaire  uncle,  I  knowed  where  Stan's 
trouble  began.  I  wonder  what  makes  Stan 
such  a  fool!  He  might  'a'  knowed!  .  .  .  This 
Oscar  person  is  pretty  soft.  .  .  .  Mighty  nice 
kid,  little  Selden  is!  Smart  too.  She's  some 
schemer!  .  .  .  Too  smart  for  Oscar!  .  .  .  Differ 
ent  complected,  and  all  that;  but  her  ways  — 
she  sort  of  puts  me  in  mind  of  Miss  Sally." 


CHAPTER  XII 

MR.  OSCAR  MITCHELL  was  a  bachelor, 
though  not  precisely  lorn.  He  main 
tained  an  elm-shaded  residence  on  Front  Street, 
presided  over  by  an  ancient  housekeeper,  of 
certain  and  gusty  disposition,  who  had  guided 
his  first  toddling  steps  and  grieved  with  him 
for  childhood's  insupportable  wrongs,  and 
whose  vinegarish  disapprovals  were  still  feared 
by  Mitchell;  it  was  for  her  praise  or  blame  that 
his  overt  walk  and  conversation  were  austere 
and  godly,  his  less  laudable  activities  so  mole- 
like. 

After  dinner  Mr.  Mitchell  slipped  into  a 
smoking  jacket  with  a  violent  velvet  lining  and 
sat  in  his  den  —  a  den  bedecorated  after  the 
manner  known  to  the  muddle-minded  as 
artistic,  but  more  aptly  described  by  Sir  An 
thony  Gloster  as  "beastly."  To  this  den  came 
now  the  sprightly  clerk,  summoned  by  tele 
phone. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          209 

"Sit  down,  Pelman.  I  sent  for  you  because 
I  desire  your  opinion  and  cooperation  upon  a 
matter  of  the  first  importance,"  said  the  law 
yer,  using  his  most  gracious  manner. 

Mr.  Joseph  Pelman,  pricking  up  his  eara 
at  the  smooth  conciliation  of  eye  and  voice, 
warily  circled  the  room,  holding  Mitchell's 
eyes  as  he  went,  selected  a  corner  chair  for 
obvious  strategic  reasons,  pushed  it  against  the 
wall,  tapped  that  wall  apprehensively  with  a 
backward-reaching  hand,  seated  himself  stiffly 
upon  the  extreme  edge  of  the  chair,  and  faced 
his  principal,  bolt  upright  and  bristling  with 
deliberate  insolence. 

"If  it  is  murder  I  want  a  third,"  he  re 
marked. 

The  lawyer  gloomed  upon  this  frowardness. 

"That  is  a  poor  way  to  greet  an  opportu 
nity  to  make  your  fortune  once  and  for  all," 
he  said.  "I  have  something  on  hand  now, 
which,  if  we  can  swing  it  — " 

"One-third,"  said  the  clerk  inflexibly. 


210          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Mitchell  controlled  himself  with  a  visible 
effort.  He  swallowed  hard  and  began  again: 

"  If  we  can  carry  out  my  plan  successfully  — 
and  it  seems  to  be  safe,  and  certain,  and  almost 
free  from  risk  —  there  will  be  no  necessity  here 
after  for  any  of  us  to  engage  in  any  crooked 
dealings  whatever.  Indeed,  to  take  up  cleanly 
ways  would  be  the  part  of  wisdom.  Or,  young 
as  you  are,  you  will  be  able  to  retire,  if  you 
prefer,  sure  of  every  gratification  that  money 
can  buy." 

"Necessity  does  n't  make  me  a  crook.  I'm 
crooked  by  nature.  I  like  crookedness,"  said 
Pelman.  ' 'That's  why  I'm  with  you. " 

"Now,  Joey,  don't  talk—" 

"Don't  you  'Joey'  me!"  exploded  the  de 
mon  clerk.  "  It  was  '  fool '  this  afternoon.  I  'm 
Pelman  when  there's  any  nerve  needed  for 
your  schemes;  but  when  you  smile  at  me  and 
call  me  Joey,  what  I  say  is  —  one-third!" 

"You  devil!   I  ought  to  wring  your  neck!" 

"Try  it!   I'll  stab  your  black  heart  with  a 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          21 1 

corkscrew!  I've  studied  it  all  out,  and  I've 
carried  a  corkscrew  on  purpose  ever  since  I  Ve 
known  you.  Thirty- three  and  one- third  per 
cent.  Three-ninths.  Proceed!" 

Mitchell  paced  the  floor  for  a  few  furious 
seconds  before  he  began  again. 

''You  remember  Mayer  Zurich,  whom  we 
helped  through  that  fake  bankruptcy  at  Syra 
cuse?" 

"Three-ninths?" 

"Yes,  damn  you!" 

Joey  settled  back  in  his  chair,  crossed  his 
knees  comfortably,  screwed  his  face  to  round- 
eyed  innocence,  and  gave  a  dainty  caress  to 
the  thin  silky  line  of  black  on  his  upper  lip. 

"You  may  go  on,  Oscar,"  he  drawled  pat 
ronizingly. 

After  another  angry  turn,  Mitchell  resumed 
with  forced  composure: 

"Zurich  is  now  a  fixture  in  Cobre,  Arizona, 
where  my  Cousin  Stanley  lives.  I  had  a  letter 
from  him  a  week  ago  and  he  tells  me  —  this 


212          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

is  in  strict  confidence,  mind  you  —  that  poor 
Stanley  is  in  jail." 

Joey  interrupted  him  by  a  gentle  waving  of 
a  deprecatory  hand. 

"Save  your  breath,  Oscar  dear,  and  pass  on 
to  the  main  proposition.  Now  that  we  are 
partners,  in  manner  of  speaking,  since  your 
generous  concession  of  a  few  minutes  past  — 
about  the  thirds  —  I  must  be  very  considerate 
of  you." 

As  if  to  mark  the  new  dignity,  the  junior 
partner  dropped  the  crude  and  boisterous 
phrases  that  had  hitherto  marked  his  converse. 
Mitchell  recognized  the  subtle  significance  of 
this  change  by  an  angry  gesture. 

"Since  our  interests  are  now  one,"  continued 
the  new  member  suavely,  "propriety  seems  to 
demand  that  I  should  tell  you  the  Mitchell- 
Zurich  affair  has  no  secrets  from  me.  If  young 
Stanley  is  in  prison,  it  is  because  you  put  him 
there!" 

"What!" 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          213 

"Yes,"  said  Joey  'with  a  complacent  stroke 
at  his  upper  lip.  "  I  have  duplicate  keys  to  all 
your  dispatch  boxes  and  filing  cabinets." 

"You  fiend!" 

"  I  wished  to  protect  you  against  any  temp 
tation  toward  ingratitude,"  explained  Joey.  "I 
have  been,  on  the  whole,  much  entertained 
by  your  correspondence.  There  was  much 
chaff  —  that  was  to  be  expected.  But  there 
was  also  some  precious  grain  which  I  have  gar 
nered  with  care.  For  instance,  I  have  copies 
of  all  Zurich's  letters  to  you.  You  have  been 
endeavoring  to  ruin  your  cousin,  fearing  that 
McClintock  might  relent  and  remember  Stan 
ley  in  his  will;  you  have  succeeded  at  last. 
Whatever  new  villainy  you  have  to  propose, 
it  now  should  be  easier  to  name  it,  since  you 
are  relieved  from  the  necessity  of  beating 
round  the  bush.  —  You  were  saying  — ?" 

"Stanley  has  found  a  mine,  a  copper  de 
posit  of  fabulous  richness;  so  he  writes,  and  so 
Zurich  assures  me.  Zurich  has  had  a  sample 


214          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

of  it  assayed ;  he  does  not  know  where  the  de 
posit  is  located,  but  hopes  to  find  it  before 
Stanley  or  Stanley's  partner  can  get  secure 
possession.  Zurich  wants  me  to  put  up  cash 
to  finance  the  search  and  the  early  develop 


ment." 


"Well?  Where  do  I  come  in?  I  am  no  miner, 
and  I  have  no  cash.  I  am  eating  husks. " 

"  You  listen.  Singularly  enough,  Stanley  has 
sent  his  partner  up  here  to  make  me  exactly 
the  same  proposition." 

"That  was  Stan's  partner  to-day  —  that 
old  gray  goat?" 

"Exactly.  So,  you  see,  I  have  two  chances." 

"  I  need  not  ask  you,"  said  Joey  with  a  sage 
nod,  "  whether  you  intend  to  throw  in  your  lot 
with  the  thieves  or  with  the  honest  men.  You 
will  flock  with  the  thieves." 

"I  will,"  said  Mitchell  grimly.  "My  cousin 
had  quite  supplanted  me  with  my  so-called 
Uncle  McClintock.  The  old  dotard  would 
have  left  him  every  cent,  except  for  that  calf- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL        '215 

love  affair  of  Stan's  with  the  Selden  girl.  Some 
reflections  on  the  girl's  character  had  come  to 
McClmtock's  ears." 

"Mitchell,"  said  Joey,  "before  God,  you 
make  me  sick!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  now,  fool?" 
demanded  Mitchell.  "  I  never  so  much  as  men 
tioned  the  girl's  name  in  McClintock's  hear 
ing.'1 

"Trust  you!"  said  the  clerk.  "You're  a 
slimy  toad,  you  are.  You're  nauseatin'.  Pah! 
Ptth!" 

"McClintock  repeated  these  rumors  to 
Stan,"  said  the  lawyer  gloatingly.  "Stan 
called  him  a  liar.  My  uncle  never  liked  me.  It 
is  very  doubtful  if  he  leaves  me  more  than  a 
moderate  bequest,  even  now.  But  I  have  at 
least  made  sure  that  he  leaves  nothing  to  Stan. 
And  now  I  shall  strip  his  mine  from  him  and 
leave  him  to  rot  in  the  penitentiary.  For  I  al 
ways  hated  him,  quite  aside  from  any  thought 
of  my  uncle's  estate.  I  hate  him  for  what  he 


216          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

is.   I  always  wanted  to  trample  his  girl-face  in 
the  mire." 

"  Leave  your  chicken-curses  and  come  to 
the  point,"  urged  the  junior  member  of  the 
firm  impatiently.  "It  is  no  news  to  me  that 
your  brain  is  diseased  and  your  heart  rotten. 
What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?  Calm  your 
self,  you  white-livered  maniac.  I  gather  that 
I  am  in  some  way  to  meddle  with  this  mine. 
If  I  but  had  your  head  for  my  very  own  along 
with  the  sand  in  my  craw,  I  'd  tell  you  to  go  to 
hell.  Having  only  brains  enough  to  know  what 
I  am,  I'm  cursed  by  having  to  depend  upon 
you.  Name  your  corpse!  Come  through!" 

"You  shut  your  foul  mouth  and  listen. 
You  throw  me  off." 

"Give  me  a  cigar,  then.  Thanks.  I  await 
your  pleasure." 

"Zurich  warned  me  that  Stanley's  partner, 
this  old  man  Johnson,  had  gone  East  and 
would  in  all  probability  come  here  to  bring 
proposals  from  Stan.  He  came  yesterday, 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          217 

bearing  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Stan. 
The  fear  that  I  would  not  close  with  his  propo 
sition  had  the  poor  old  gentleman  on  needles 
and  pins.  But  I  fell  in  with  his  offer.  I  won 
his  confidence  and  within  the  hour  he  had 
turned  himself  wrong  side  out.  He  made  me 
a  map,  which  shows  me  how  to  find  the  mine. 
He  thinks  I  am  to  go  to  Arizona  with  him  in 
a  week  —  poor  idiot!  Instead,  you  are  to  get 
him  into  jail  at  once." 

"Hew?" 

"The  simplest  and  most  direct  way  possible. 
You  have  that  Poole  tribe  under  your  thumb, 
have  you  not?" 

"Bootlegging,  chicken-stealing,  sneak-thiev 
ing,  arson,  and  perjury.  And  they  are  ripe  for 
any  deviltry,  without  compulsion.  All  I  need 
to  do  is  to  show  them  a  piece  of  money  and 
give  instructions." 

"Get  the  two  biggest  ones,  then  —  Amos 
and  Seth.  Have  them  pick  a  fight  with  the 
man  Johnson  and  swear  him  into  jail.  They 


218          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

need  n't  hurt  him  much  and  they  need  n't 
bother  about  provocation.  All  they  need  to  do 
is  to  contrive  to  get  him  in  some  quiet  spot, 
beat  him  up  decently,  and  swear  that  John 
son  started  the  row  without  warning;  that 
they  never  saw  him  before,  and  that  they  think 
he  was  drunk.  Manage  so  that  Johnson  sees 
the  inside  of  the  jail  by  to-morrow  at  luncheon- 
time,  or  just  after,  at  worst;  then  you  and  I 
will  take  the  afternoon  train  for  Arizona  — 
with  my  map.  I  have  just  returned  from  in 
forming  my  beloved  uncle  of  Stanley's  igno 
minious  situation,  and  I  told  him  I  could  go  to 
the  rescue  at  once,  for  the  sake  of  the  family 
honor.  I  thought  the  old  fool  would  threw 
a  fit,  he  was  so  enraged.  So,  good-bye  to 
Nephew  Stanley!" 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Oscar;  that's  no  good,  you 
know,"  remonstrated  Pelman.  "What's  the 
good  of  throwing  Johnson  into  jail  for  five  or 
ten  days  —  or  perhaps  only  a  fine?  He  may 
even  have  letters  from  Stan  to  some  one  else 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  219 

in  Vesper,  some  one  influential;  he  may  beat 
the  case.  He  '11  be  out  there  in  no  time,  mak 
ing  you  trouble.  That  old  goat  looks  as  if  he 
might  butt." 

Mitchell  smiled. 

"That's  only  half  my  plan.  The  jailer  is 
also  one  of  your  handy  men.  I'll  furnish  you 
plenty  of  money  for  the  Pooles  and  for  the 
jailer  —  enough  to  make  it  well  worth  their 
while.  Contrive  a  faked  rescue  of  Johnson. 
The  jailer  can  be  found  trussed  up  and  gagged, 
to-morrow  about  midnight.  Best  have  only 
one  of  the  Pooles  in  it;  take  Amos.  He  shall 
wear  a  mask  and  be  the  bold  rescuer;  he  shall 
open  the  cell  door,  whisper  'Mitchell'  to  John 
son,  and  help  him  escape.  Once  out,  without 
taking  off  his  mask,  Amos  can  hide  Johnson 
somewhere.  I  leave  you  to  perfect  these  de 
tails.  Then,  after  discarding  his  mask,  Poole 
can  give  the  alarm.  It  is  immaterial  whether 
he  rouses  the  undersheriff  or  finds  a  policeman; 
but  he  is  to  give  information  that  he  has  just 


220          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

seen  Johnson  at  liberty,  skulking  near  such- 
and-such  a  place.  Such  information,  from  a 
man  so  recently  the  victim  of  a  wanton  assault 
at  Johnson's  hands,  will  seem  a  natural  act." 

"Mr.  Mitchell,  you're  a  wonder !"  declared 
Joey  in  a  fine  heat  of  admiration.  As  the  law 
yer  unfolded  his  plan  the  partner-clerk,  as  a 
devotee  of  cunning,  found  himself  convicted 
of  comparative  unworth;  with  every  sentence 
he  deported  himself  less  like  Pelman  the  part 
ner,  shrank  more  and  more  to  Joey  the  devil 
clerk.  "The  first  part  of  your  programme 
sounded  Jike  amateur  stuff;  but  the  second 
number  is  a  scream.  Any  mistreated  guy 
would  fall  for  that.  I  would,  myself.  He'll 
be  up  against  it  for  jail-breaking,  conspiracy, 
assaulting  an  officer,  using  deadly  weapons  — 
and  the  best  is,  he  will  actually  be  guilty  and 
have  no  kick  coming!  Look  what  a  head  that 
is  of  yours!  Even  if  he  should  escape  rearrest 
here,  it  will  be  a  case  for  extradition.  If  he 
goes  back  to  Arizona,  he  will  be  nabbed;  our 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          221 

worthy  sheriff  will  be  furious  at  the  insult  to 
his  authority  and  will  make  every  effort  to 
gather  Mr.  Johnson  in.  Either  way  you  have 
Johnson  off  your  shoulders." 

"  Stanley  is  off  my  shoulders,  too,  and  good 
for  a  nice  long  term.  And  I  have  full  direc 
tions  for  reaching  Stanley's  mine.  You  and  I, 
in  that  wild  Arizona  country,  would  not  know 
our  little  way  about;  we  will  be  wholly  de 
pendent  upon  Zurich;  and,  therefore,  we  must 
share  our  map  with  him.  But,  on  the  whole,  I 
think  I  have  managed  rather  well  than  other 
wise.  It  may  be,  after  this  bonanza  is  safely 
in  our  hands,  that  we  may  be  able  to  discover 
some  ultimate  wizardry  of  finance  which  shall 
deal  with  Zurich's  case.  We  shall  see." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MR.  FRANCIS  CHARLES  BOLAND, 
propped  up  on  one  elbow,  sprawled 
upon  a  rug  spread  upon  the  grass  under  a 
giant  willow  tree  at  Mitchell  House,  deep  in 
the  Chronicles  of  Sir  John  Froissart.  Mr.  Fer 
dinand  Sedgwick  tiptoed  unheard  across  the 
velvet  sward.  He  prodded  Frances  Charles 
with  his  toe. 

"Ouch!"  said  Francis  Charles. 

"  You  '11  catch  your  death  of  cold.  Get  up! 
Your  company  is  desired. " 

"Go  'way!" 

"Miss  Dexter  wants  you." 

"Don't,  either.  She  was  coiled  in  the  ham 
mock  ten  minutes  ago.  Wearing  a  criminal 
neglige.  Picturesque,  but  not  posing.  She 
slept;  I  heard  her  snore." 

"She's  awake  now  and  wants  you  to  make  a 
fourth  at  bridge;  you  two  against  Elsie  and 


me." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          223 
"Botheration!   Tell  her  you  couldn't  find 


me." 


"I  would  hush  the  voice  of  conscience  and 
do  your  bidding  gladly,  old  thing,  if  it  lay 
within  the  sphere  of  practical  politics.  But, 
unfortunately,  she  saw  you." 

"Tell  her  to  go  to  the  devil!" 

Ferdie  considered  this  proposition  and  re 
jected  it  with  regret. 

"She  would  n't  do  it.  But  you  go  on  with 
your  reading.  I'll  tell  her  you're  disgruntled. 
She'll  understand.  This  will  make  the  fourth 
day  that  you  have  n't  taken  your  accustomed 
stroll  by  the  schoolhouse.  We're  all  interested, 
Frankie." 

"You  banshee!"  Francis  withdrew  the  fin 
ger  that  had  been  keeping  his  place  in  the 
book.  "I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go  back  with 
you."  He  sat  up,  rather  red  as  to  his  face. 

"  I  bet  she  turned  you  down  hard,  old  boy," 
murmured  Mr.  Sedgwick  sympathetically. 
"My  own  life  has  been  very  sad.  It  has  been 


224          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

blighted  forever,  several  times.  Is  she  pretty? 
I  have  n't  seen  her,  myself,  and  the  reports  of 
the  men-folks  and  the  young  ladies  don't  tally. 
Funny  thing,  but  scientific  observation  shows 
that  when  a  girl  says  another  girl  is  fine-look 
ing —  Hully  Gee!  And  vice  versa.  Eh?  What 
say?" 

"  Did  n't  say  anything.  You  probably  over 
heard  me  thinking.  If  so,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"I  saw  a  fine  old  Western  gentleman  drive 
by  here  with  old  man  Selden  yesterday  — 
looked  like  a  Westerner,  anyhow;  big  som 
brero,  leather  face,  and  all  that.  I  hope,"  said 
Ferdie  anxiously,  "that  it  was  not  this  vener 
able  gentleman  who  put  you  on  the  blink.  He 
was  a  fine  old  relic ;  but  he  looked  rather  patri 
archal  for  the  role  of  Lochinvar.  Unless,  of 
course,  he  has  the  money." 

"Yes,  he's  a  Western  man,  all  right.  I  met 
them  on  the  Vesper  Bridge,"  replied  Boland 
absently,  ignoring  the  banter.  He  got  to  his 
feet  and  spoke  with  dreamy  animation.  "  Fer- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          225 

die,  that  chap  made  me  feel  homesick  with 
just  one  look  at  him.  Best  time  I  ever  had  was 
with  that  sort.  Younger  men  I  was  running 
with,  of  course.  Fine  chaps;  splendidly  edu 
cated  and  perfect  gentlemen  when  sober  — 
I  quote  from  an  uncredited  quotation  from  a 
copy  of  an  imitation  of  a  celebrated  plagiarist. 
Would  go  back  there  and  stay  and  stay,  only 
for  the  lady  mother.  She's  used  to  the  city. 
...  By  the  waters  of  Babylon  we  sat  down 
and  wept." 

"Hi!"  said  Ferdie.  "Party  yellin'  at  you 
from  the  road.  Come  out  of  your  trance." 

Francis  Charles  looked  up.  A  farmer  had 
stopped  his  team  by  the  front  gate. 

"Mr.  Boland!"  he  trumpeted  through  his 
hands. 

Boland  answered  the  hail  and  started  for 
the  gate,  Ferdie  following;  the  agriculturist 
flourished  a  letter,  dropped  it  in  the  R.F.Do 
box,  and  drove  on. 

"Oh,  la,  la!  The  thick  plottens!"  observed 
Ferdie. 


226          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Francis  Charles  tore  open  the  letter,  read  it 
hastily,  and  turned  with  sparkling  eyes  to  his 
friend.  His  friend,  for  his  part,  sighed  pro 
foundly. 

" Oh  Francis,  Francis!"  he  chided. 

"Here,  you  howling  idiot;  read  it!"  said 
Francis. 

The  idiot  took  the  letter  and  read: 

DEAR  MR.  BOLAND:  I  need  your  help.  Mr. 
Johnson,  a  friend  of  Stanley's  —  his  best  friend  — 
is  up  here  from  Arizona  upon  business  of  the  ut 
most  importance,  both  to  himself  and  Stanley. 

I  have  only  this  moment  had  word  that  Mr. 
Johnson  is  in  the  most  serious  trouble.  To  be  plain, 
he  is  in  Vesper  Jail.  There  has  been  foul  play, 
part  and  parcel  of  a  conspiracy  directed  against 
Stanley.  Please  come  at  once.  I  claim  your 
promise. 

MARY  SELDEN 

Ferdie  handed  it  back. 

"My  friend's  friend  is  my  friend?  And  so 
on,  ad  infinitum,  like  fleas  with  little  fleas  to 
bite  'em  —  that  sort  of  thing  —  what?  Does 
that  let  me  in?  I  seem  to  qualify  in  a  small- 
flealike  way." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          227 

"You  bet  you  do,  old  chap!  That's  the 
spirit!  Do  you  rush  up  and  present  my  pro 
found  apologies  to  the  ladies  —  important 
business  matter.  I  '11  be  getting  out  the  buzz 
wagon.  You  shall  see  Mary  Selden.  You  shall 
also  see  how  right  well  and  featly  our  no-bel 
and  intrepid  young  hero  bore  himself,  just 
a-pitchin'  and  a-rarin',  when  inclination  jibed 
with  jooty!" 

Two  minutes  later  they  took  the  curve  by 
the  big  gate  on  two  wheels.  As  they  straight 
ened  into  the  river  road,  Mr.  Sedgwick  spread 
one  hand  over  his  heart,  rolled  his  eyes  heaven 
ward,  and  observed  with  fine  dramatic  effect: 

."'I  claim  your  pr-r-r-r-omise ' ! " 

Mr.  Johnson  sat  in  a  cell  of  Vesper  Jail, 
charged  with  assault  and  battery  in  the  nth 
degree;  drunk  and  disorderly  understood,  but 
that  charge  unpref erred  as  yet.  It  is  no  part  of 
legal  method  to  bring  one  accused  of  intoxica 
tion  before  the  magistrate  at  once,  so  that  the 


228          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

judicial  mind  may  see  for  itself.  By  this  capi 
tal  arrangement,  the  justly  intoxicated  may 
be  acquitted  for  lack  of  convincing  evidence, 
after  they  have  had  time  to  sober  up;  while 
the  unjustly  accused,  who  should  go  free  on 
sight,  are  at  the  mercy  of  such  evidence  as  the 
unjust  accuser  sees  fit  to  bring  or  send. 

The  Messrs.  Poole  had  executed  their  com 
mission  upon  Vesper  Bridge,  pouncing  upon 
Mr.  Johnson  as  he  passed  between  them,  all 
unsuspecting.  They  might  well  have  failed 
in  their  errand,  however,  had  it  not  been  that 
Mr.  Johnson  was,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  in 
dishabille,  having  left  his  gun  at  the  hotel. 
Even  so,  he  improvised  several  new  lines  and 
some  effective  stage  business  before  he  was 
overpowered  by  numbers  and  weight. 

The  brothers  Poole  were  regarded  with 
much  disfavor  by  Undersheriff  Barton,  who 
made  the  arrest;  but  their  appearance  bore 
out  their  story.  It  was  plain  that  some  one 
had  battered  them. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          229 

Mr.  Johnson  quite  won  the  undersheriff's 
esteem  by  his  seemly  bearing  after  the  arrest. 
He  accepted  the  situation  with  extreme  com 
posure,  exhibiting  small  rancor  toward  his 
accusers,  refraining  from  counter-comment  to 
their  heated  descriptive  analysis  of  himself;  he 
troubled  himself  to  make  no  denials. 

"  I  '11  tell  my  yarn  to  the  judge,"  he  said,  and 
walked  to  jail  with  his  captors  in  friendliest 
fashion. 

These  circumstances,  coupled  with  the  dep 
uty's  experienced  dislike  for  the  complain 
ing  witnesses  and  a  well-grounded  unofficial 
joy  at  their  battered  state,  won  favor  for  the 
prisoner.  The  second  floor  of  the  jail  was 
crowded  with  a  noisy  and  noisome  crew. 
Johnson  was  taken  to  the  third  floor,  unten- 
anted  save  for  himself,  and  ushered  into  a  quiet 
and  pleasant  corner  cell,  whence  he  might 
solace  himself  by  a  view  of  the  street  and  the 
courthouse  park.  Further,  the  deputy  minis 
tered  to  Mr.  Johnson's  hurts  with  water  and 


230          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

court-plaster,  and  a  beefsteak  applied  to  a 
bruised  and  swollen  eye.  He  volunteered  his 
good  offices  as  a  witness  in  the  moot  matter  of 
intoxication  and  in  all  ways  gave  him  treat 
ment  befitting  a'n  honored  guest. 

"Now,  what  else?"  he  said.  "You  can't 
get  a  hearing  until  to-morrow;  the  justice  of 
the  peace  is  out  of  town.  Do  you  know  any 
body  here?  Can  you  give  bail?  " 

"Ya-as,  I  reckon  so.  But  I  won't  worry 
about  that  till  to-morrow.  Night  in  jail  don't 
hurt  any  one." 

"If  I  can  do  anything  for  you,  don't  hesi 
tate  to  ask." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  I'll  take  you  up  on 
that.  Just  let  me  think  up  a  little." 

The  upshot  of  his  considerations  was  that 
the  jailer  carried  to  a  tailor's  shop  Johnson's 
coat  and  vest,  sadly  mishandled  during  the 
brief  affray  on  the  bridge;  the  deputy  dis 
patched  a  messenger  to  the  Selden  Farm  with 
a  note  for  Miss  Mary  Selden,  and  also  made 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          231 

diligent  inquiry  as  to  Mr.  Oscar  Mitchell,  re 
porting  that  Mr.  Mitchell  had  taken  the  west 
bound  flyer  at  four  o'clock,  together  with  Mr. 
Pelman,  his  clerk;  both  taking  tickets  to  El 
Paso. 

Later,  a  complaisant  jailer  brought  to  Pete 
a  goodly  supper  from  the  Algonquin,  clean 
bedding,  cigars,  magazines,  and  a  lamp  —  the 
last  item  contrary  to  rule.  He  chatted  with 
his  prisoner  during  supper,  cleared  away  the 
dishes,  locked  the  cell  door,  with  a  cheerful 
wish  for  good  night,  and  left  Pete  with  his 
reflections. 

Pete  had  hardly  got  to  sleep  when  he  was 
wakened  by  a  queer,  clinking  noise.  He  sat  up 
in  the  bed  and  listened. 

The  sound  continued.  It  seemed  to  come 
from  the  window,  from  which  the  sash  had 
been  removed  because  of  July  heat.  Pete  went 
to  investigate.  He  found,  black  and  startling 
against  the  starlight  beyond,  a  small  rubber 
balloon,  such  as  children  love,  bobbing  up  and 


232          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

down  across  the  window;  tied  to  it  was  a  del 
icate  silk  fishline,  which  furnished  the  motive 
power.  As  this  was  pulled  in  or  paid  out  the 
balloon  scraped  by  the  window,  and  a  pocket- 
size  cigar  clipper,  tied  beneath  at  the  end  of  a 
six-inch  string,  tinkled  and  scratched  on  the 
iron  bars.  Pete  lit  his  lamp;  the  little  balloon 
at  once  became  stationary. 

"This,"  said  Pete,  grinning  hugely,  "is  the 
doings  of  that  Selden  kid.  She  is  certainly 
one  fine  small  person!" 

Pete  turned  the  lamp  low  and  placed  it  on 
the  floor  at  his  feet,  so  that  it  should  not  un 
duly  shape  him  against  the  window;  he  pulled 
gently  on  the  line.  It  gave;  a  guarded  whistle 
came  softly  from  the  dark  shadow  of  the  jail. 
Pete  detached  the  captive  balloon,  with  a  bless 
ing,  and  pulled  in  the  fishline.  Knotted  to  it 
was  a  stout  cord,  and  in  the  knot  was  a  small 
piece  of  paper,  rolled  cigarette  fashion.  Pete 
untied  the  knot;  he  dropped  his  coil  of  fishline 
out  of  the  window,  first  securing  the  stronger 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          233 

cord  by  a  turn  round  his  hand  lest  he  should 
inadvertently  drop  that  as  well;  he  held  the 
paper  to  the  light,  and  read  the  message: 

Waiting  for  you,  with  car,  two  blocks  north. 
Destroy  MS. 

Pete  pulled  up  the  cord,  hand  over  hand, 
and  was  presently  rewarded  by  a  small  hack 
saw,  eminently  suited  for  cutting  bars;  he 
drew  in  the  slack  again  and  this  time  came  to 
the  end  of  the  cord,  to  which  was  fastened  a 
strong  rope.  He  drew  this  up  noiselessly  and 
laid  the  coils  on  the  floor.  Then  he  penciled  a 
note,  in  turn: 

Clear  out.  Will  join  you  later. 

He  tied  this  missive  on  his  cord,  together 
with  the  cigar  clipper,  and  lowered  them  from 
the  window.  There  was  a  signaling  tug  at  the 
cord;  Pete  dropped  it. 

Pete  dressed  himself;  he  placed  a  chair 
under  the  window;  then  he  extinguished  the 
lamp,  took  the  saw,  and  prepared  to  saw  out 


234          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

the  bars.  But  it  was  destined  to  be  other 
wise.  Even  as  he  raised  the  saw,  he  stiffened 
in  his  tracks,  listening;  his  blood  tingled  to 
his  finger  tips.  He  heard  a  footstep  on  the 
stair,  faint,  guarded,  but  unmistakable.  It 
came  on,  slowly,  stealthily. 

Pete  thrust  saw  and  rope  under  his  mattress 
and  flung  himself  upon  it,  all  dressed  as  he 
was,  face  to  the  wall,  with  one  careless  arm 
under  his  head,  just  as  if  he  had  dropped  asleep 
unawares. 

A  few  seconds  later  came  a  little  click, 
startling  to  tense  nerves,  at  the  cell  door;  a 
slender  shaft  of  light  lanced  the  darkness, 
spreading  to  a  mellow  cone  of  radiance.  It 
searched  and  probed;  it  rested  upon  the  silent 
figure  on  the  bed. 

"Sh-h-h!"  said  a  sibilant  whisper. 

Peter  muttered,  rolled  over  uneasily,  opened 
his  eyes  and  leaped  up,  springing  aside  from 
that  golden  circle  of  light  in  well-simulated 
alarm. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          235 

"Hush-h!"  said  the  whisper.  "I'm  going 
to  let  you  out.  Be  quiet!" 

Keys  jingled  softly  in  the  dark;  the  lock 
turned  gently  and  the  door  opened.  In  that 
brief  flash  of  time  Pete  Johnson  noted  that 
there  had  been  no  hesitation  about  which  key 
to  use.  His  thought  flew  to  the  kindly  under- 
sheriff.  His  hand  swept  swiftly  over  the  table; 
a  match  crackled. 

" Smoke?"  said  Pete,  extending  the  box  with 
graceful  courtesy. 

"Fool!"  snarled  the  visitor,  and  struck  out 
the  match. 

But  Pete  had  seen.  The  undersheriff  was  a 
man  of  medium  stature;  this  large  masked 
person  was  about  the  size  of  the  larger  of  his 
lately  made  acquaintances,  the  brothers  Poole. 

"Come  on!"  whispered  the  rescuer  huskily. 
" Mitchell  sent  me.  He'll  take  you  away  in  his 
car." 

"Wait  a  minute!  We'd  just  as  well  take 
these  cigars,"  answered  Pete  in  the  same 


236          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

slinking  tone.  " Here;  take  a  handful.  How'd 
you  get  in?" 

"Held  the  jailer  up  with  a  gun.  Got  him 
tied  and  gagged.  Shut  up,  will  you?  You  can 
talk  when  you  get  safe  out  of  this."  He  tip 
toed  away,  Pete  following.  The  quivering 
searchlight  crept  along  the  hall ;  it  picked  out 
the  stairs.  Halfway  down,  Pete  touched  his 
guide  on  the  shoulder. 

"Wait!"  Standing  on  the  higher  stair,  he 
whispered  in  the  larger  man's  ear:  "You  got 
all  the  keys?" 

"Yes." 

"Give  'em  to  me.  I'll  let  all  the  prisoners 
go.  If  there's  an  alarm,  it'll  make  our  chances 
for  a  get-away  just  so  much  better." 

The  Samaritan  hesitated. 

"Aw,  I  'd  like  to,  all  right!  But  I  guess  we'd 
better  not." 

He  started  on;  the  stair  creaked  horribly. 
In  the  hall  below  Pete  overtook  him  and  halted 
him  again. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          237 

"Aw,  come  on  —  be  a  sport!"  he  urged. 
"Just  open  this  one  cell,  here,  and  give  that 
lad  the  keys.  He  can  do  the  rest  while  we  beat 
it.  If  you  was  in  there,  would  n't  you  want  to 
get  out?" 

This  appeal  had  its  effect  on  the  Samaritan. 
He  unlocked  the  cell  door,  after  a  cautious 
trying  of  half  a  dozen  keys.  Apparently  his 
scruples  returned  again;  he  stood  irresolute  in 
the  cell  doorway,  turning  the  searchlight  on  its 
yet  unawakened  occupant. 

Peter  swooped  down  from  behind.  His 
hands  gripped  the  rescuer's  ankles;  he  heaved 
swiftly,  at  the  same  time  lunging  forward  with 
head  and  shoulders,  with  all  the  force  of  his 
small,  seasoned  body  behind  the  effort.  The 
Samaritan  toppled  over,  sprawling  on  his  face 
within  the  cell.  With  a  heartfelt  shriek  the 
legal  occupant  leaped  from  his  bunk  and 
landed  on  the  intruder's  shoulder  blades. 
Peter  slammed  shut  the  door;  the  spring  lock 
clicked. 


238          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

The  searchlight  rolled,  luminous,  along  the 
floor;  its  glowworm  light  showed  Poole's  un 
masked  and  twisted  face.  Pete  snatched  the 
bunch  of  keys  and  raced  up  the  stairs,  bending 
low  to  avoid  a  possible  bullet;  followed  by  dis 
approving  words. 

At  the  stairhead,  beyond  the  range  of  a 
bullet's  flight,  Peter  paused.  Pandemonium 
reigned  below.  The  roused  prisoners  shouted 
rage,  alarm,  or  joy,  and  whistled  shrilly 
through  their  fingers,  wild  with  excitement; 
and  from  the  violated  cell  arose  a  prodigious 
crash  of  thudding  fists,  the  smashing  of  a 
splintered  chair,  the  sickening  impact  of  locked 
bodies  falling  against  the  stone  walls  or  upon 
the  complaining  bunk,  accompanied  by  ver 
biage,  and  also  by  rattling  of  iron  doors,  hoots, 
cheers  and  catcalls  from  the  other  cells.  Au 
thority  made  no  sign. 

Peter  crouched  in  the  darkness  above,  smil 
ing  happily.  From  the  duration  of  the  conflict 
the  combatants  seemed  to  be  equally  matched. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          239 

But  the  roar  of  battle  grew  presently  feebler; 
curiosity  stilled  the  audience,  at  least  in  part; 
it  became  evident,  by  language  and  the  sound 
of  tortured  and  whistling  breath,  that  Poole 
was  choking  his  opponent  into  submission  and 
offering  profuse  apologies  for  his  disturbance 
of  privacy.  Mingled  with  this  explanation 
were  derogatory  opinions  of  some  one,  deliv 
ered  with  extraordinary  bitterness.  From  the 
context  it  would  seem  that  those  remarks 
were  meant  to  apply  to  Peter  Johnson.  Lis 
tening  intently,  Peter  seemed  to  hear  from  the 
first  floor  a  feeble  drumming,  as  of  one  beating 
the  floor  with  bound  feet.  Then  the  tumult 
broke  out  afresh. 

Peter  went  back  to  his  cell  and  lit  his  lamp. 
Leaving  the  door  wide  open,  he  coiled  the  rope 
neatly  and  placed  it  upon  his  table,  laid  the 
hacksaw  beside  it,  undressed  himself,  blew  out 
the  light;  and  so  lay  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MR.  JOHNSON  was  rudely  wakened 
from  his  slumbers  by  a  violent  hand 
upon  his  shoulder.  Opening  his  eyes,  he 
smiled  up  into  the  scowling  face  of  Under- 
sheriff  Barton. 

"  Good-morning,  sheriff,"  he  said,  and  sat 
up,  yawning. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly.  Mr.  Johnson 
reached  for  his  trousers  and  yawned  again. 

The  scandalized  sheriff  was  unable  to  reply. 
He  had  been  summoned  by  passers-by,  who, 
hearing  the  turbulent  clamor  for  breakfast 
made  by  the  neglected  prisoners,  had  hastened 
to  give  the  alarm.  He  had  found  the  jailer 
tightly  bound,  almost  choked  by  his  gag,  suf 
fering  so  cruelly  from  cramps  that  he  could  not 
get  up  when  released,  and  barely  able  to  utter 
the  word  "Johnson." 

Acting  on  that  hint,  Barton  had  rushed  up- 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          241 

stairs,  ignoring  the  shouts  of  his  mutinous 
prisoners  as  he  went  through  the  second-floor 
corridor,  to  find  on  the  third  floor  an  opened  cell, 
with  a  bunch  of  keys  hanging  in  the  door,  the 
rope  and  saw  upon  the  table,  Mr.  Johnson's 
neatly  folded  clothing  on  the  chair,  and  Mr. 
Johnson  peacefully  asleep.  The  sheriff  pointed 
to  the  rope  and  saw,  and  choked,  spluttering  in 
articulate  noises.  Mr.  Johnson  suspended  dress 
ing  operations  and  patted  him  on  the  back. 

"There,  there! "  he  crooned  benevolently. 
"Take  it  easy.  What's  the  trouble?  I  hate  to 
see  you  all  worked  up  like  this,  for  you  was 
sure  mighty  white  to  me  yesterday.  Nicest 
jail  I  ever  was  in.  But  there  was  a  thunder 
ing  racket  downstairs  last  night.  I  ain't  com- 
plainin'  none  —  I  would  n't  be  that  ungrate 
ful,  after  all  you  done  for  me.  But  I  did  n't  get 
a  good  night's  rest.  Wish  you  'd  put  me  in  an 
other  cell  to-night.  There  was  folks  droppin' 
in  here  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  pesterin'  me. 
I  did  n't  sleep  good  at  all." 


242          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"  Dropping  in?  What  in  hell  do  you  mean?" 
gurgled  the  sheriff,  still  pointing  to  rope  and 
saw. 

"Why,  sheriff,  what's  the  matter?  Aren't 
you  a  little  mite  petulant  this  A.M.?  What 
have  I  done  that  you  should  be  so  short  to  me?'1 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know.  What  have 
you  been  doing  here?" 

"I  ain't  been  doing  nothin',  I  tell  you  — 
except  stayin'  here,  where  I  belong,"  said  Pete 
virtuously. 

His  eye  followed  the  sheriff's  pointing  finger, 
and  rested,  without  a  qualm,  on  the  evidence. 
The  sheriff  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  the  coiled 
rope.  "How'd  you  get  this  in,  damn  you?" 

"That  rope?  Oh,  a  fellow  shoved  it  through 
the  bars.  Wanted  me  to  saw  my  way  out  and 
go  with  him,  I  reckon.  I  did  n't  want  to  argue 
with  him,  so  I  just  took  it  and  did  n't  let  on  I 
was  n't  comin'.  Was  n't  that  right?  Why,  I 
thought  you  'd  be  pleased !  I  could  n't  have 
any  way  of  knowin'  that  you'd  take  it  like 
this." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          243 

"  Shoved  it  in  through  a  third-story  window?" ' 

Pete's  ingenuous  face  took  on  an  injured 
look.  "I  reckon  maybe  he  stood  on  his  tip 
toes,"  he  admitted. 

" Who  was  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Pete  truthfully.  "  He 
did  n't  speak  and  I  did  n't  see  him.  Maybe 
he  did  n't  want  me  to  break  jail;  but  I  thought, 
seem'  the  saw  and  all,  he  had  some  such  idea 
in  mind." 

"Did  he  bring  the  keys,  too?" 

"Oh,  no  —  that  was  another  man  entirely* 
He  came  a  little  later.  And  he  sure  wanted  me 
to  quit  jail;  because  he  said  so.  But  I  would  n't 
go,  sheriff.  I  thought  you  would  n't  like  it. 
Say,  you  ought  to  sit  down,  feller.  You're  go 
ing  to  have  apoplexy  one  of  these  days,  sure  as 
you're  a  foot  high!" 

"You  come  downstairs  with  me,"  said  the 
angry  Barton.  "I'll  get  at  the  bottom  of  this 
or  I'll  have  your  heart  out  of  you." 

"All  right,  sheriff.   Just  you  wait  till  I  get 


244          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

dressed/'  Peter  laced  his  shoes,  put  on  his  hat, 
and  laid  tie,  coat,  and  vest  negligently  across 
the  hollow  of  his  arm  "  I  can't  do  my  tie  good 
unless  I  got  a  looking-glass/'  he  explained,  and 
paused  to  light  a  cigar.  "Have  one,  sheriff," 
he  said  with  hospitable  urgency. 

"Get  out  of  here!"  shouted  the  enraged 
officer. 

Pete  tripped  light-footed  down  the  stairs. 
At  the  stairfoot  the  sheriff  paused.  In  the  cell 
directly  opposite  were  two  bruised  and  tat 
tered  inmates  where  there  should  have  been 
but  one,  and  that  one  undismantled.  The 
sheriff  surveyed  the  wreckage  within.  His  jaw 
dropped;  his  face  went  red  to  the  hair;  his  lip 
trembled  as  he  pointed  to  the  larger  of  the  two 
roommates,  who  was,  beyond  doubting,  Amos 
Poole  —  or  some  remainder  of  him. 

"How  did  that  man  get  here?"  demanded 
the  sheriff  in  a  cracked  and  horrified  voice. 

"Him?  Oh,  I  throwed  him  in  there!"  said 
Pete  lightly.  "That's  the  man  who  brought 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          245 

me  the  keys  and  pestered  me  to  go  away  with 
him.  Say,  sheriff,  better  watch  out!  He  told 
me  he  had  a  gun,  and  that  he  had  the  jailer 
tied  and  gagged. " 

"The  damned  skunk  didn't  have  no  gun! 
All  he  had  was  a  flashlight,  and  I  broke  that 
over  his  head.  But  he  tole  me  the  same  story 
about  the  jailer — all  except  the  gun/1  This  tes 
timony  was  volunteered  by  Poole's  cellmate. 

Peter  removed  his  cigar  and  looked  at  the 
"damned  skunk "  more  closely. 

"Why,  if  it  ain't  Mr.  Poole!"  he  said. 

"Sure,  it's  Poole.  What  in  hell  does  he 
mean,  then  —  swearin'  you  into  jail  and  then 
breakin'  you  out?" 

"Had  n't  you  better  ask  him?"  said  Peter, 
very  reasonably.  "You  come  on  down  to  the 
office,  sheriff.  I  want  you  to  get  at  the  bottom 
of  this  or  have  the  heart  out  of  some  one."  He 
rolled  a  dancing  eye  at  Poole  with  the  word, 
and  Poole  shrank  before  it. 

"Breakfast!  Bring  us  our  breakfast!"  bawled 
the  prisoners.  "  Breakfast ! " 


246          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

The  sheriff  dealt  leniently  with  the  uproar, 
realizing  that  these  were  but  weakling  folk 
and,  under  the  influence  of  excitement,  hardly 
responsible. 

"Brooks  has  been  tied  up  all  night,  and  is 
all  but  dead.  I  '11  get  you  something  as  soon  as 
I  can,"  he  said,  "on  condition  that  you  stop 
that  hullabaloo  at  once.  Johnson,  come  down 
to  the  office." 

He  telephoned  a  hurry  call  to  a  restaurant, 
Brooks,  the  jailer,  being  plainly  incapable  of 
furnishing  breakfast.  Then  he  turned  to  Pete. 

"What  is  this,  Johnson?  A  plant?" 

Pete's  nose  quivered. 

"Sure!  It  was  a  plant  from  the  first.  The 
Pooles  were  hired  to  set  upon  me.  This  one 
was  sent,  masked,  to  tell  me  to  break  out. 
Then,  as  I  figure  it,  I  was  to  be  betrayed  back 
again,  to  get  two  or  three  years  in  the  pen  for 
breaking  jail.  Nice  little  scheme!" 

"Who  did  it?  For  Poole,  if  you're  not  lying, 
was  only  a  tool." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          247 

"Sheriff,"  said  Pete,  "pass  your  hand 
through  my  hair  and  feel  there,  and  look  at  my 
face.  See  any  scars?  Quite  a  lot  of  'em?  And 
all  in  front?  Men  like  me  don't  have  to  lie. 
They  pay  for  what  they  break.  You  go  back 
up  there  and  get  after  Poole.  He'll  tell  you. 
Any  man  that  will  do  what  he  did  to  me,  for 
money,  will  squeal  on  his  employer.  Sure!" 

Overhead  the  hammering  and  shouting 
broke  out  afresh. 

"There,"  said  the  sheriff  regretfully;  "now 
I  '11  have  to  make  those  fellows  go  without  any 
thing  to  eat  till  dinner-time." 

"Sheriff,"  said  Pete,  "youVe  been  mighty 
square  with  me.  Now  I  want  you  should  do 
me  one  more  favor.  It  will  be  the  last  one;  for 
I  shan't  be  with  you  long.  Give  those  boys 
their  breakfast.  I  got  'em  into  this.  I'll  pay 
for  it,  and  take  it  mighty  kindly  of  you,  be 
sides." 

"Oh,  all  right!"  growled  the  sheriff,  secretly 
relieved. 


248          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"One  thing  more,  brother:  I  think  your 
jailer  was  in  this  —  but  that's  your  business. 
Anyhow,  Poole  knew  which  key  opened  my 
door,  and  he  did  n't  know  the  others.  Of 
course,  he  may  have  forced  your  jailer  to  tell 
him  that.  But  Poole  did  n't  strike  me  as  being 
up  to  any  bold  enterprise  unless  it  was  cut-and- 
dried." 

The  sheriff  departed,  leaving  Johnson  un 
guarded  in  the  office.  In  ten  minutes  he  was 
back. 

"All  right,"  he  nodded.  "He  confessed  — 
whimpering  hard.  Brooks  was  in  it.  I  've  got 
him  locked  up.  Nice  doings,  this  is!" 

"Mitchell?" 

"Yes.  I  would  n't  have  thought  it  of  him. 
What  was  the  reason?" 

''There  is  never  but  one  reason.  Money. 
—Who's  this?" 

It  was  Mr.  Boland,  attended  by  Mr.  Ferdie 
Sedgwick,  both  sadly  disheveled  and  bearing 
marks  of  a  sleepless  night.  Francis  Charles 
spoke  hurriedly  to  the  sheriff. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          249 

"Oh,  I  say,  Barton!  McClintock  will  go 
bail  for  this  man  Johnson.  Ferdie  and  I  would, 
but  we  're  not  taxpayers  in  the  county.  Come 
over  to  the  Iroquois,  won't  you?" 

"Boland,"  said  the  sheriff  solemnly,  "take 
this  scoundrel  out  of  my  jail!  Don't  you  ever 
let  him  step  foot  in  here  again.  There  won't 
be  any  bail;  but  he  must  appear  before  His 
Honor  later  to-day  for  the  formal  dismissal  of 
the  case.  Take  him  away!  If  you  can  possibly 
do  so,  ship  him  out  of  town  at  once." 

Francis  Charles  winked  at  Peter  as  they 
went  down  the  steps. 

"So  it  was  you  last  night?"  said  Peter. 
11  Thanks  to  you.  I  '11  do  as  much  for  you  some 
time." 

"Thank  us  both.  This  is  my  friend  Sedg- 
wick,  who  was  to  have  been  our  chauffeur." 
The  two  gentlemen  bowed,  grinning  joyfully. 
"My  name's  Boland,  and  I'm  to  be  your  first 
stockholder.  Miss  Selden  told  me  about  you 
—  which  is  my  certificate  of  character.  Come 


250          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

over  to  the  hotel  and  see  Old  McClintock. 
Miss  Selden  is  there  too.  She  bawled  him  out 
about  Nephew  Stan  last  night.  Regular  old- 
fashioned  wigging!  And  now  she  has  the  old 
gentleman  eating  from  her  hand.  Say,  how 
about  this  Stanley  thing,  anyway?  Any  good?" 
"Son,"  said  Pete,  "Stanley  is  a  regular  per 


son/' 


Boland's  face  clouded. 

"Well,  I'm  going  out  with  you  and  have  a 
good  look  at  him,"  he  said  gloomily.  "If  I'm 
not  satisfied  with  him,  I'll  refuse  my  consent. 
And  I'll  look  at  your  mine  —  if  you've  got 
any  mine.  They  used  to  say  that  when  a  man 
drinks  of  the  waters  of  the  Hassayampa,  he 
can  never  tell  the  truth  again.  And  you're 
from  Arizona." 

Pete  stole  a  shrewd  look  at  the  young  man's 
face. 

"There  is  another  old  saying  about  the 
Hassayampa,  son,"  he  said  kindly,  "with  even 
more  truth  to  it  than  in  that  old  dicho.  They 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          251 

say  that  whoever  drinks  of  the  waters  of  the 
Hassayampa  must  come  to  drink  again/* 

He  bent  his  brows  at  Francis  Charles. 

"Good  guess,"  admitted  Boland,  answering 
the  look.  "I've  never  been  to  Arizona,  but 
I've  sampled  the  Pecos  and  the  Rio  Grande; 
and  I  must  go  back  'Where  the  flyin'-fishes 
play  on  the  road  to  Mandalay,  where  the  dawn 
comes  up  like  thunder' —  Oh,  gee!  That's 
my  real  reason.  I  suppose  that  silly  girl  and 
your  picturesque  pardner  will  marry,  anyhow, 
even  if  I  disapprove  —  precious  pair  they'll 
make!  And  if  I  take  a  squint  at  the  copper 
proposition,  it  will  be  mostly  in  Ferdie's  inter 
est —  Ferdie  is  the  capitalist,  comparatively 
speaking;  but  he  can't  tear  himself  away  from 
little  old  N'Yawk.  This  is  his  first  trip  West 
—  here  in  Vesper.  Myself,  I  've  got  only  two 
coppers  to  clink  together  —  or  maybe  three. 
We're  rather  overlooking  Ferdie,  don't  you 
think?  Must  n't  do  that.  Might  withdraw  his 
backin'.  Ferdie,  speak  up  pretty  for  the  gen- 
nulmun! 


252  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,  Mr.  Johnson,"  said 
Sedgwick  cheerfully.  "  I'm  used  to  hearin'  Bo- 
land  hog  the  conversation,  and  trottin'  to  keep 
up  with  him.  Glad  to  be  seen  on  the  street 
with  him.  Gives  one  a  standing,  you  know. 
But,  I  say,  old  chappie,  why  did  n't  you  come 
last  night?  Deuced  anxious,  we  were!  Thought 
you  missed  the  way,  or  slid  down  your  rope 
and  got  nabbed  again,  maybe.  No  end  of  a 
funk  I  was  in,  not  being  used  to  lawbreakin', 
except  by  advice  of  counsel.  And  we  felt  a  cer 
tain  delicacy  about  inquiring  about  you  this 
morning,  you  know  —  until  we  heard  about 
the  big  ructions  at  the  jail.  Come  over  to  Mc- 
Clintock's  rooms  —  can't  you?  —  where  we'll 
be  all  together,  and  tell  us  about  it  —  so  you 
won't  have  to  tell  it  but  the  one  time." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Pete  decidedly.  "I  get  my 
breakfast  first,  and  a  large  shave.  Got  to  do 
credit  to  Stan.  Then  I'll  go  with  you.  Big 
mistake,  though.  Story  like  this  gets  better 
after  bein'  told  a  few  times.  I  could  make 
quite  a  tale  of  this,  with  a  little  practice." 


CHAPTER  XV 

YOU'VE  got  Stan  sized  up  all  wrong, 
Mr.  McClintock,"  said  Pete.  "That  boy 
did  n't  want  your  money.  He  never  so  much 
as  mentioned  your  name  to  me.  If  he  had,  I 
would  have  known  why  Old  Man  Trouble  was 
haunting  him  so  persistent.  And  he  don't  want 
anybody's  money.  He's  got  a-plenty  of  his 
own  —  in  prospect.  And  he's  got  what's 
better  than  money :  he  has  learned  to  do  with 
out  what  he  has  n't  got." 

14  You  say  he  has  proved  himself  a  good  man 
of  his  hands?  "  demanded  McClintock  sharply. 
"Yessir  —  Stanley  is  sure  one  double-fisted 
citizen,"  said  Pete.  "Here  is  what  I  heard 
spoken  of  him  by  highest  authority  the  day 
before  I  left:  'He'll  make  a  hand!'  That  was 
the  word  said  of  Stan  to  me.  We  don't  get 
any  higher  than  that  in  Arizona.  When  you 
say  of  a  man,  'He'll  do  to  take  along,'  you've 
said  it  all.  And  Stanley  Mitchell  will  do  to  take 


254          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

along.  I'm  thinkin',  sir,  that  you  did  him  no 
such  an  ill  turn  when  your  quarrel  sent  him 
out  there.  He  was  maybe  the  least  bit  inclined 
to  be  butter-flighty  when  he  first  landed." 

It  was  a  queer  gathering.  McClintock  sat 
in  his  great  wheeled  chair,  leaning  against  the 
cushions;  he  held  a  silken  skull-cap  in  his  hand, 
revealing  a  shining  poll  with  a  few  silvered 
locks  at  side  and  back;  his  little  red  ferret 
eyes,  fiery  still,  for  all  the  burden  of  his  years, 
looked  piercingly  out  under  shaggy  brows. 
His  attendant,  withered  and  brown  and  gaunt, 
stood  silent  behind  him.  Mary  Selden,  quiet 
and  pale,  was  at  the  old  man's  left  hand.  Pete 
Johnson,  with  one  puffed  and  discolored  eye, 
a  bruised  cheek,  and  with  skinned  and  band 
aged  knuckles,  but  cheerful  and  sunny  of  de 
meanor,  sat  facing  McClintock.  Boland  and 
Sedgwick  sat  a  little  to  one  side.  They  had 
tried  to  withdraw,  on  the  plea  of  intrusion; 
but  McClintock  had  overruled  them  and  bade 
them  stay. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          255 

"For  the  few  high  words  that  passed  atween 
us,  I  care  not  a  boddle  —  though,  for  the 
cause  of  them  I  take  shame  to  myself,"  said 
McClintock,  glancing  down  affectionately  at 
Mary  Selden.  "I  was  the  more  misled  —  at 
the  contrivance  of  yon  fleechin'  scoundrel  of 
an  Oscar.  'I'm  off  to  Arizona,  to  win  the  boy 
free/  says  he  —  the  leein'  cur!  ...  I  will  say 
this  thing,  too,  that  my  heart  warmed  to  the 
lad  at  the  very  time  of  it  —  that  he  had  spunk 
to  speak  his  mind.  I  have  seen  too  much  of 
the  supple  stock.  Sirs,  it  is  but  an  ill  thing  to 
be  over-rich,  in  which  estate  mankind  is  seen 
at  the  worst.  The  fawning  sort  cringe  under 
foot  for  favors,  and  the  true  breed  of  kindly 
folk  are  all  o'erapt  to  pass  the  rich  man  by, 
verra  scornful-like."  He  looked  hard  at  Peter 
Johnson.  "  I  am  naming  no  names,"  he  added. 

"As  for  my  gear,  it  would  be  a  queer  thing 
if  I  could  not  do  what  I  like  with  my  own. 
Even  a  gay  young  birkie  like  yoursel'  should 
understand  that,  Mr.  Johnson.  Besides,  we 


256  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

talk  of  what  is  by.  The  lawyer  has  been;  Van 
Lear  has  given  him  instructions,  and  the  pack 
of  you  shall  witness  my  hand  to  the  bit  paper 
that  does  Stan  right,  or  ever  you  leave  this 


room." 


Pete  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Stanley  will 
always  be  feelin'  that  I  softied  it  up  to  you. 
And  he's  a  stiff-necked  one  — Stan!" 

McClintock  laughed  with  a  relish. 

"For  all  ye  are  sic  a  fine  young  man,  Mr. 
Johnson,  I'm  doubtin'  ye 're  no  deeplomat. 
And  Stan  will  be  knowin'  that  same.  Here  is 
what  ye  shall  do :  you  shall  go  to  him  and  say 
that  you  saw  an  old  man  sitting  by  his  leelane, 
handfast  to  the  chimney  neuk;  and  that  you 
are  thinking  I  will  be  needin'  a  friendly  face, 
and  that  you  think  ill  of  him  for  that  same 
stiff  neck  of  his.  Ye  will  be  having  him  come 
to  seek  and  not  to  gie ;  folk  aye  like  better  to  be 
forgiven  than  to  forgive;  I  do,  mysel'.  That  is 
what  you  shall  do  for  me." 

"And  I  did  not  come  to  coax  money  from 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          257 

you  to  develop  the  mine  with,  either/'  said 
Pete.  "  If  the  play  had  n't  come  just  this  way, 
with  the  jail  and  all,  you  would  have  seen 
neither  hide  nor  hair  of  me." 

"  I  am  thinkin'  that  you  are  one  who  has  had 
his  own  way  of  it  overmuch,"  said  McClintock. 
His  little  red  eyes  shot  sparks  beneath  the 
beetling  brows;  he  had  long  since  discovered 
that  he  had  the  power  to  badger  Mr.  Johnson; 
and  divined  that,  as  a  usual  thing,  Johnson 
was  a  man  not  easily  ruffled.  The  old  man  en 
joyed  the  situation  mightily  and  made  the 
most  of  it.  "When  ye  are  come  to  your 
growth,  you  will  be  more  patient  of  sma'  cross 
ings.  Here  is  no  case  for  argle-bargle.  You 
have  taken  yon  twa  brisk  lads  into  composi 
tion  with  you"  —  he  nodded  toward  the  brisk 
lads  — ' '  the  compact  being  that  they  were  to 
provide  fodder  for  yonder  mine-beastie,  so  far 
as  in  them  lies,  and,  when  they  should  grow 
short  of  siller,  to  seek  more  for  you.  Weel, 
they  need  seek  no  farther,  then.  I  have  told 


258          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

them  that  I  will  be  their  backer  at  need;  I 
made  the  deal  wi'  them  direct  and  ye  have 
nowt  to  do  with  it.  You  are  ill  to  please,  young 
man!  You  come  here  with  a  very  singular 
story,  and  nowt  to  back  it  but  a  glib  tongue 
and  your  smooth,  innocent-like  young  face  — 
and  you  go  back  hame  with  a  heaped  gowpen 
of  gold,  and  mair  in  the  kist  ahint  of  that.  I 
think  ye  do  very  weel  for  yoursel'." 

"Don't  mind  him,  Mr.  Johnson,"  said 
Mary  Selden.  "He  is  only  teasing  you." 

Old  McClintock  covered  her  hand  with  his 
own  and  continued:  "Listen  to  her  now!  Was 
ne'er  a  lassie  yet  could  bear  to  think  ;ill  of 
a  bonny  face!"  He  drew  down  his  brows  at 
Pete,  who  writhed  visibly. 

Ferdie  Sedgwick  rose  and  presented  a  slip  of 
pasteboard  to  McClintock,  with  a  bow. 

"I  have  to-day  heard  with  astonishment  — 
ahem!  —  and  with  indignation,  a  great  many 
unseemly  and  disrespectful  remarks  concern 
ing  money,  and  more  particularly  concerning 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          259 

money  that  runs  to  millions,"  he  said,  oppos 
ing  a  grave  and  wooden  countenance  to  the 
battery  of  eyes.  " Allow  me  to  present  you  my 
card,  Mr.  McClintock,  and  to  assure  you  that 
I  harbor  no  such  sentiments.  I  can  always  be 
reached  at  the  address  given ;  and  I  beg  you  to 
remember,  sir,  that  I  shall  be  most  happy  to 
serve  you  in  the  event  that — " 

A  rising  gale  of  laughter  drowned  his  further 
remarks,  but  he  continued  in  dumb  show,  with 
fervid  gesticulations,  and  a  mouth  that  moved 
rapidly  but  produced  no  sound,  concluding 
with  a  humble  bow;  and  stalked  back  to  his 
chair  with  stately  dignity,  unmarred  by  even 
the  semblance  of  a  smile.  Young  Peter  John 
son  howled  with  the  rest,  his  sulks  forgotten; 
and  even  the  withered  serving-man  relaxed  to 
a  smile  —  a  portent  hitherto  unknown. 

"Come;  we  grow  giddy,"  chided  McClin 
tock  at  last,  wiping  his  own  eyes  as  he  spoke. 
"We  have  done  with  talk  of  yonder  ghost- 
bogle  mine.  But  I  must  trouble  you  yet  with 


260          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

a  word  of  my  own,  which  is  partly  to  justify 
me  before  you.  This  it  is  —  that,  even  at  the 
time  of  Stanley's  flitting,  I  set  it  down  in  black 
and  white  that  he  was  to  halve  my  gear  wi' 
Oscar,  share  and  share  alike.  I  aye  likit  the 
boy  weel.  From  this  day  all  is  changit;  Oscar 
shall  hae  neither  plack  nor  bawbee  of  mine;  all 
goes  to  my  wife's  nephew,  Stanley  Mitchell, 
as  is  set  down  in  due  form  in  the  bit  testament 
that  is  waiting  without;  bating  only  some  few 
sma'  bequests  for  old  kindness.  It  is  but  loath 
I  am  to  poison  our  mirth  with  the  name  of  the 
man  Oscar;  the  deil  will  hae  him  to  be  brand- 
ered;  he  is  fast  grippit,  except  he  be  cast  out  as 
an  orra-piece,  like  the  smith  in  the  Norroway 
tale.  When  ye  are  come  to  your  own  land,  Mr. 
Johnson,  ye  will  find  that  brockle-faced  stot 
there  afore  you ;  and  I  trust  ye  will  comb  him 
weel.  Heckle  him  finely,  and  spare  not;  but  ere 
ye  have  done  wi'  him,  for  my  sake  drop  a  word 
in  his  lug  to  come  nae  mair  to  Vesper.  When 
all's  said,  the  man  is  of  my  wife's  blood  and 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL         261 

bears  her  name;  I  would  not  have  that  name 
publicly  disgracit.  They  were  a  kindly  folk, 
the  Mitchells.  I  thought  puirly  of  theem  for  a 
wastrel  crew  when  I  was  young.  But  now  I  am 
old,  I  doubt  their  way  was  as  near  right  as 
mine.  You  will  tell  him  for  me,  Mr.  Johnson, 
to  name  one  who  shall  put  a  value  on  his 
gear,  and  I  shall  name  another;  and  what  they 
agree  upon  I  shall  pay  over  to  his  doer,  and 
then  may  I  never  hear  of  him  more  —  unless 
it  be  of  ony  glisk  of  good  yet  in  him,  the  which 
I  shall  be  most  blithe  to  hear.  And  so  let  that 
be  my  last  word  of  Oscar.  Cornelius,  bring  in 
the  lawyer  body,  and  let  us  be  ower  wi'  it;  for 
I  think  it  verra  needfu'  that  the  two  lads 
should  even  pack  their  mails  and  take  train 
this  day  for  the  West.  You'll  have  an  eye  on 
this  young  spark,  Mr.  Boland?  And  gie  him  a 
bit  word  of  counsel  from  time  to  time,  should 
ye  see  him  temptit  to  whilly-whas  and  follies? 
I  fear  me  he  is  prone  to  insubordination." 
"I'll  watch  over  him,  sir,"  laughed  Boland. 


262  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"I'll  keep  him  in  order.  And  if  Miss  Selden 
should  have  a  message  —  or  anything  —  to 
send,  perhaps — " 

Miss  Selden  blushed  and  laughed. 

"No,  thank  you!"  she  said.  "I'll  — I'll 
send  it  by  Mr.  Johnson." 

The  will  was  brought  in.  McClintock  af 
fixed  his  signature  in  a  firm  round  hand;  the 
others  signed  as  witnesses. 

"Man  Johnson,  will  ye  bide  behind  for  a 
word?"  said  McClintock  as  the  farewells  were 
said.  When  the  others  were  gone,  he  made  a 
sign  to  Van  Lear,  who  left  the  room. 

"  I  'm  asking  you  to  have  Stanley  back  soon 
—  though  he'll  be  coming  for  the  lassie's  sake, 
ony  gate.  But  I  am  wearyin'  for  a  sight  of 
the  lad's  face  the  once  yet,"  said  the  old  man. 
"And  yoursel',  Mr.  Johnson;  if  you  visit  to 
York  State  again,  I  should  be  blithe  to  have  a 
crack  with  you.  But  it  must  be  early  days,  for 
I'll  be  flittin'  soon.  I  '11  tell  you  this,  that  I  am 
real  pleased  to  have  met  with  you.  Man,  I'll 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  263 

tell  ye  a  dead  secret.  Ye  ken  the  auld  man 
ahint  my  chair  —  him  that  the  silly  folk  ca* 
Rameses  Second  in  their  sport?  What  think 
ye  the  auld  body  whispert  to  me  but  now? 
That  he  likit  ye  weel  —  no  less!  Man,  that 
sets  ye  up!  Cornelius  has  not  said  so  much  for 
ony  man  these  twenty  year  —  so  my  jest  is 
true  enough,  for  all  't  was  said  in  fleerin';  ye 
bear  your  years  well  and  the  credentials  of 
them  in  your  face.  Ye '11  not  be  minding  for 
an  old  man's  daffin'?" 

"Sure  not!  I'm  a  great  hand  at  the  joke- 
play  myself,"  said  Pete.  "And  it's  good  for 
me  to  do  the  squirmin'  myself,  for  once/' 

"  I  thought  so  much.  I  likit  ye  mysel',  and 
I'll  be  thinkin'  of  you,  nights,  and  your  wild 
life  out  beyont.  I'll  tell  you  somethin'  now, 
and  belike  you'll  laugh  at  me."  He  lowered 
his  voice  and  spoke  wistfully.  "Man,  I  have 
ne'er  fought  wi'  my  hands  in  a'  my  life  —  not 
since  I  was  a  wean;  nor  yet  felt  the  pinch  of 
ony  pressin'  danger  to  be  facit,  that  I  might 


264  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

know  how  jeopardy  sorts  wi'  my  stomach.  I 
became  man-grown  as  a  halflin'  boy,  or  e'er 
you  were  born  yet  —  a  starvelin'  boy,  workin' 
for  bare  bread;  and  hard  beset  I  was  for't.  So 
my  thoughts  turned  all  money-wise,  till  it  be 
came  fixture  and  habit  with  me;  and  I  took 
nae  time  for  pleasures.  But  when  I  heard  of 
your  fight  yestreen,  and  how  you  begawked 
him  that  we  are  to  mention  no  more,  and  of 
your  skirmishes  and  by-falls  with  these  gentry 
of  your  own  land,  my  silly  auld  blood  leapit  in 
my  briskit.  And  when  I  was  a  limber  lad  like 
yourself,  I  do  think  truly  that  once  I  might  hae 
likit  weel  to  hae  been  lot  and  part  of  siclike  stir 
and  hazard,  and  to  see  the  bale-fires  burn. 

"  Bear  with  me  a  moment  yet,  and  I  '11  have 
done.  There  is  a  hard  question  I  would  spier 
of  you.  I  thought  but  ill  of  my  kind  in  my 
younger  days.  Now,  being  old,  I  see,  with  a 
thankful  heart,  how  many  verra  fine  people 
inhabit  here.  'T  is  a  rale  bonny  world.  And, 
lookin'  back,  I  see  too  often  where  I  have  made 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          265 

harsh  judgings  of  my  fellows.  There  are  more 
excuses  for  ill-doings  to  my  old  eyes.  Was't  so 
with  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pete.  " We're  not  such  a  poor 
lot  after  all  —  not  when  we  stop  to  think  or 
when  we're  forced  to  see.  In  fire  or  flood,  or 
sickness,  we're  all  eager  to  bear  a  hand  —  for 
we  see,  then.  Our  purses  and  our  hearts  are 
open  to  any  great  disaster.  Why,  take  two 
cases  —  the  telephone  girls  and  the  elevator 
boys.  Don't  sound  heroic  much,  do  they?  But, 
by  God,  when  the  floods  come,  the  telephone 
girls  die  at  their  desks,  still  sendin'  out  warn 
ings!  And  when  a  big  fire  comes,  and  there 
are  lives  to  save,  them  triflin'  cigarette-smok 
ing,  sassy,  no-account  boys  run  the  elevators 
through  hell  and  back  as  long  as  the  cables 
hold!  Every  time!" 

The  old  man's  eye  kindled.  "  Look  ye  there, 
now!  Man,  and  have  ye  noticed  that  too?"  he 
cried  triumphantly.  <;  *  Ye  have  e'en  the  secret 
of  it.  We're  good  in  emairgencies,  the  now; 


266  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

when  the  time  comes  when  we  get  a  glimmer 
that  all  life  is  emairgency  and  tremblin'  peril, 
that  every  turn  may  be  the  wrong  turn — when 
we  can  see  that  our  petty  system  of  suns  and 
all  is  nobbut  a  wee  darkling  cockle-boat,  drif  tin' 
and  tossed  abune  the  waves  in  the  outmost  seas 
of  an  onrushing  universe  —  hap-chance  we'll 
no  loom  so  grandlike  in  our  own  een;  and 
we'll  tak'  hands  for  comfort  in  the  dark.  T  is 
good  theology,  yon  wise  saying  of  the  silly 
street:  'We  are  all  in  the  same  boat.  Don't 
rock  the  boat!'" 

When  Peter  had  gone,  McClintock's  feeble 
hands,  on  the  wheel-rims,  pushed  his  chair  to 
the  wall  and  took  from  a  locked  cabinet  an 
old  and  faded  daguerreotype  of  a  woman  with 
smiling  eyes.  He  looked  at  it  long  and  si 
lently,  and  fell  asleep  there,  the  time-stained 
locket  in  his  hands.  When  Van  Lear  returned, 
McClintock  woke  barely  in  time  to  hide  the 
locket  under  a  cunning  hand  —  and  spoke 
harshly  to  that  aged  servitor. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BEFORE  the  two  adventurers  left  Vesper, 
Johnson  wired  to  Jose  Benavides  the  date 
of  his  arrival  at  Tucson;  and  from  El  Paso 
he  wired  Jackson  Carr  to  leave  Mohawk  the 
next  day  but  one,  with  the  last  load  of  water. 
Johnson  and  Boland  arrived  in  Tucson  at 
seven-twenty-six  in  the  morning.  Benavides 
met  them  at  the  station  —  a  slender,  wiry, 
hawk-faced  man,  with  a  grizzled  beard. 

"So  this  is  Francis  Charles? "  said  Stanley. 

"Frank  by  brevet,  now.  Pete  has  pro 
moted  me.  He  says  that  Francis  Charles  is  too 
heavy  for  the  mild  climate,  and  unwieldy  in 
emergencies." 

"You  ought  to  see  Frankie  in  his  new  khaki 
suit!  He's  just  too  sweet  for  anything,"  said 
Pete.  "You  know  Benavides,  Stan?" 

"Joe  and  I  are  lifelong  friends  of  a  week's 


268          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

standing.  Compadres  —  eh,  Joe?  He  came 
to  console  my  captivity  on  your  account,  at 
first,  and  found  me  so  charming  that  he  came 
back  on  his  own." 

"Ah,  que  hombret  Do  not  beliefing  heem, 
Don  Hooaleece.  He  ees  begging  me  efery  day 
to  come  again  back  —  that  leetle  one/'  cried 
Joe  indignantly.  "I  come  here  not  wis  plessir 
—  not  so.  He  is  ver'  triste,  thees  boy  —  ver' 
dull.  I  am  to  take  sorry  for  heem  —  sin  ver- 
guenza!  Also,  perhaps  a  leetle  I  am  coming  for 
that  he  ordaire  always  from  the  Posada  the 
bes*  dinners,  lak  now." 

"Such  a  care- free  life!"  sighed  Francis- 
Frank.  "Decidedly  I  must  reform  my  ways. 
One  finds  so  much  gayety  and  happiness 
among  the  criminal  classes,  as  I  observed 
when  I  first  met  Mr.  Johnson  —  in  Vesper 
Jail." 

"Oh,  has  Pete  been  in  jail?  That's  good. 
Tell  us  about  it,  Pete." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          269 

That  was  a  morning  which  flashed  by  quickly. 
The  gleeful  history  of  events  in  Vesper  was 
told  once  and  again,  with  Pete's  estimate  and 
critical  analysis  of  the  Vesperian  world.  Stan 
ley's  new  fortunes  were  announced,  and  Pete 
spoke  privately  with  him  concerning  Mc- 
Clintock.  The  coming  campaign  was  planned 
in  detail,  over  another  imported  meal.  Stan 
ley  was  to  be  released  that  afternoon,  Bena- 
vides  becoming  security  for  him ;  but,  through 
the  courtesy  of  the  sheriff,  he  was  to  keep  his 
cell  until  late  bedtime.  It  was  wished  to  make 
the  start  without  courting  observation.  For 
the  same  reason,  when  the  sheriff  escorted 
Stanley  and  Benavides  to  the  courthouse  for 
the  formalities  attendant  to  the  bail-giving, 
Pete  did  not  go  along.  Instead,  he  took  Frank- 
Francis  for  a  sight-seeing  stroll  about  the 
town. 

It  was  past  two  when,  in  an  unquiet  street, 
Boland's  eye  fell  upon  a  signboard  which  drew 
his  eye: 


270          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 
THE  PALMILLA 

THE  ONLY  SECOND-CLASS  SALOON  IN  THE  CITY 

Boland  called  attention  to  this  surprising 
proclamation. 

"Yes,"  said  Pete;  "that's  Rhiny  Archer's 
place.  Little  old  Irishman  —  sharp  as  a  steel 
trap.  You'll  like  him.  Let's  go  in." 

They  marched  in.  The  barroom  was  de 
serted;  Tucson  was  hardly  awakened  from 
siesta  as  yet.  From  the  open  door  of  a  side 
room  came  a  murmur  of  voices. 

"Where's  Rhiny?"  demanded  Pete  of  the 
bartender. 

"Rhiny  don't  own  the  place  now.  Sold  out 
and  gone." 

"Shucks!"  said  Pete.  "That's  too  bad. 
Where 'd  he  go?" 

"Don't  know.  You  might  ask  the  boss." 
He  raised  his  voice:  "Hey,  Dewing!  Gentle 
man  here  to  speak  to  you." 

At  the  summons,  Something  Dewing  ap 
peared  at  the  side  door;  he  gave  a  little  start 
when  he  saw  Pete  at  the  bar. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          271 

"Why,  hello,  Johnson!  Well  met!  This  is  a 
surprise/1 

"  Same  here/'  said  Pete.  "  Did  n't  know  you 
were  in  town/' 

"  Yes;  I  bought  Rhiny  out.  Tired  of  Cobre. 
Want  to  take  a  hand  at  poker,  Pete?  Here's 
two  lumberjacks  down  from  up-country,  and 
honing  to  play.  Their  money 's  burning  holes 
in  their  pockets.  I  was  just  telling  them  that 
it's  too  early  to  start  a  game  yet." 

He  indicated  the  other  two  men,  who  were 
indeed  disguised  as  lumberjacks,  even  to  their 
hands;  but  their  faces  were  not  the  faces  of 
workingmen. 

" Cappers,"  thought  Pete.  Aloud  he  said: 
"Not  to-day,  I  guess.  Where's  Rhiny?  In 
town  yet?" 

"No ;  he  left.  Don't  know  where  he  went  ex 
actly  —  somewhere  up  Flagstaff -way,  I  think. 
But  I  can  find  out  for  you  if  you  want  to 
write  to  him." 

"Oh,  no  —  nothing  particular.  Just  wanted 
a  chin  with  him." 


272  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Better  try  the  cards  a  whirl,  Pete,"  urged 
the  gambler.  "I  don't  want  to  start  up  for  a 
three-handed  game." 

Pete  considered.  It  was  not  good  taste  to 
give  a  second  invitation;  evidently  Dewing 
had  strong  reasons  for  desiring  his  company. 
"If  this  tinhorn  thinks  he  can  pump  me,  I'll 
let  him  try  it  a  while,"  he  reflected.  He  glanced 
at  his  watch. 

"Three  o'clock.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do 
with  you,  Dewing,"  he  said:  "I'll  disport 
round  till  supper-time,  if  I  last  that  long.  But 
I  can't  go  very  strong.  Quit  you  at  supper- 
time,  win  or  lose.  Say  six  o'clock,  sharp.  The 
table  will  be  filled  up  long  before  that." 

"Come  into  the  anteroom.  We'll  start  in 
with  ten-cent  chips,"  said  Dewing.  "Maybe 
your  friend  would  like  to  join  us?" 

"Not  at  first.  Later,  maybe.  Come  on, 
Frankie!" 

Boland  followed  into  the  side  room.  He  was 
a  little  disappointed  in  Pete. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          273 

"You  see,  it's  like  this,"  said  Pete,  sinking 
into  a  chair  after  the  door  was  closed:  "Back 
where  Boland  lives  the  rules  are  different. 
They  play  a  game  something  like  Old  Maid, 
and  call  it  poker.  He  can  sit  behind  me  a  spell 
and  I'll  explain  how  we  play  it.  Then,  if  he 
wants  to,  he  can  sit  in  with  us.  Deal  'em  up." 

"Cut  for  deal  —  high  deals,"  said  Dewing. 

After  the  first  hand  was  played,  Pete  began 
his  explanations: 

"We  play  all  jack  pots  here,  Frankie;  and 
we  use  five  aces.  That  is  in  the  Constitution 
of  the  State  of  Texas,  and  the  Texas  influence 
reaches  clear  to  the  Colorado  River.  The  joker 
goes  for  aces,  flushes,  and  straights.  It  always 
counts  as  an  ace,  except  to  fill  a  straight;  but 
if  you  've  got  a  four-card  straight  and  the  joker, 
then  the  joker  fills  your  hand.  Here;  I  '11  show 
you."  Between  deals  he  sorted  out  a  ten,  nine, 
eight,  and  seven,  and  the  joker  with  them. 
"There,"  he  said;  "with  a  hand  like  this  you 
can  call  the  joker  either  a  jack  or  a  six,  just  as 


274          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

you  please.  It  is  usual  to  call  it  a  jack.  But 
in  anything  except  straights  and  straight 
flushes  —  if  there  is  any  such  thing  as  a 
straight  flush  —  the  cuter  card  counts  as  an 
ace.  Got  that?" 

4 'Yes;  I  think  I  can  remember  that." 
"All  right!  You  watch  us  play  a  while,  then, 
till  you  get  on  to  our  methods  of  betting  — 
they're  different  from  yours  too.  When  you 
think  you're  wise,  you  can  take  a  hand  if  you 
want  to." 

Boland  watched  for  a  few  hands  and  then 
bought  in.  The  game  ran  on  for  an  hour,  with 
the  usual  vicissitudes.  Nothing  very  startling 
happened.  The  "lumbermen"  bucked  each 
other  furiously,  bluffing  in  a  scandalous  man 
ner  when  they  fought  for  a  pot  between  them 
selves.  Each  was  cleaned  out  several  times 
and  bought  more  chips.  Pete  won;  lost; 
bought  chips;  won,  lost,  and  won  again;  and 
repeated  the  process.  Red  and  blue  chips  be 
gan  to  appear:  the  table  took  on  a  distinctly 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          275 

patriotic  appearance.  The  lumbermen  clam 
ored  to  raise  the  ante;  Johnson  steadfastly 
declined.  Boland,  playing  cautiously,  neither 
won  nor  lost.  Dewing  won  quietly,  mostly 
from  the  alleged  lumbermen. 

The  statement  that  nothing  particular  had 
occurred  is  hardly  accurate.  There  had  been 
one  little  circumstance  of  a  rather  peculiar 
nature.  Once  or  twice,  when  it  came  Pete's 
turn  to  deal,  he  had  fancied  that  he  felt  a  stir 
of  cold  air  at  the  back  of  his  neck;  cooler,  at 
least,  than  the  smoke-laden  atmosphere  of  the 
card  room. 

On  the  third  recurrence  of  this  phenomenon 
Pete  glanced  carelessly  at  his  watch  before 
picking  up  his  hand,  and  saw  in  the  polished 
back  a  tiny  reflection  from  the  wall  behind 
him  —  a  small  horizontal  panel,  tilted  tran- 
somwise,  and  a  peering  face.  Pete  scanned 
his  hand;  when  he  picked  up  his  watch  to  re 
store  it  to  his  pocket,  the  peering  face  was 
gone  and  the  panel  had  closed  again. 


276          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Boland,  sitting  beside  Johnson,  saw  nothing 
of  this.  Neither  did  the  lumbermen,  though 
they  were  advantageously  situated  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table.  Pete  played  on, 
with  every  sense  on  the  alert.  He  knocked  over 
a  pile  of  chips,  spilling  some  on  the  floor;  when 
he  stooped  over  to  get  them,  he  slipped  his 
gun  from  his  waistband  and  laid  it  in  his  lap. 
His  curiosity  was  aroused. 

At  length,  on  Dewing's  deal,  Johnson  picked 
up  three  kings  before  the  draw.  He  sat  at 
Dewing's  left;  it  was  his  first  chance  to  open 
the  pot;  he  passed.  Dewing  coughed;  Johnson 
felt  again  that  current  of  cold  air  on  his  neck. 
"This  must  be  the  big  mitt,"  thought  Pete. 
"  In  a  square  game  there  'd  be  nothing  unusual 
in  passing  up  three  kings  for  a  raise  —  that  is 
good  poker.  But  Dewing  wants  to  be  sure  I  've 
got  'em.  Are  they  going  to  slide  me  four  kings? 
I  reckon  not.  It  is  n't  considered  good  form 
to  hold  four  aces  against  four  kings.  They'll 
slip  me  a  king-full,  likely,  and  some  one  will 
hold  an  ace-full." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          277 

Obligingly  Pete  spread  his  three  kings  fan- 
wise,  for  the  convenience  of  the  onlooker  be 
hind  the  panel.  So  doing,  he  noted  that  he 
held  the  kings  of  hearts,  spades,  and  diamonds, 
with  the  queen  and  jack  of  diamonds.  He  slid 
queen  and  jack  together.  "Two  aces  to  go 
with  this  hand  would  give  me  a  heap  of  con 
fidence,"  he  thought.  "I'm  going  to  take  a 
long  chance." 

Boland  passed;  the  first  lumberman  opened 
the  pot;  the  second  stayed;  Dewing  stayed; 
Pete  stayed,  and  raised.  Boland  passed  out; 
the  first  lumberman  saw  the  raise. 

"I  ought  to  lift  this  again;  but  I  won't," 
announced  the  lumberman.  "I  want  to  get 
Scotty's  money  in  this  pot,  and  I  might  scare 
him  out." 

Scotty,  the  second  lumberman,  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  and  then  laid  down  his  hand, 
using  language.  Dewing  saw  the  raise. 

"Here's  where  I  get  a  cheap  draw  for  the 
Dead  Man's  Hand  —  aces  and  eights."  He 


278  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

discarded  two  and  laid  before  him,  face  up  on 
the  table,  a  pair  of  eights  and  an  ace  of  hearts. 
"I'm  going  to  trim  you  fellows  this  time. 
Aces  and  eights  have  never  been  beaten  yet." 

"Damn  you!  Here's  one  eight  you  won't 
get,"  said  Scotty;  he  turned  over  his  hand,  ex 
posing  the  eight  of  clubs. 

41  Must  n't  expose  your  cards  unnecessarily," 
said  Dewing  reprovingly.  "It  spoils  the  game. ' ' 
He  picked  up  the  deck.  "Cards?" 

Pete  pinched  his  cards  to  the  smallest  com 
pass  and  cautiously  discarded  two  of  them, 
holding  their  faces  close  to  the  table. 

"Give  me  two  right  off  the  top." 

Dewing  complied. 

"Cards  to  you?"  he  said.  "Next  gentle 
man?" 

The  next  gentleman  scowled.  "  I  orter  have 
raised,"  he  said.  "Only  I  wanted  Scotty's 
money.  Now,  like  as  not,  somebody '11  draw 
out  on  me.  I'll  play  these." 

Dewing  dealt  himself  two.    Reversing  his 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          279 

exposed  cards,  he  shoved  between  them  the 
two  cards  he  had  drawn  and  laid  these  five  be 
fore  him,  backs  up,  without  looking  at  them. 

"It's  your  stab,  Mr.  Johnson,"  said  Dew 
ing  sweetly. 

Johnson  skinned  his  hand  slowly  and  cau 
tiously,  covering  his  cards  with  his  hands, 
clipping  one  edge  lightly  so  that  the  opposite 
edges  were  slightly  separated,  and  peering  be 
tween  them.  He  had  drawn  the  joker  and  the 
ace  of  diamonds.  He  closed  the  hand  tightly 
and  shoved  in  a  stack. 

" Here's  where  you  see  aces  and  eights 
beaten,"  he  said,  addressing  Dewing.  "You 
can't  have  four  eights,  'cause  Mr.  Scotty  done 
showed  one." 

The  lumberman  raised. 

"What  are  you  horning  in  for?"  demanded 
Pete.  "I've  got  you  beat.  It's  Dewing's  hide 
I'm  after." 

Dewing  looked  at  his  cards  and  stayed. 
Pete  saw  the  raise  and  re-raised. 


280  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

The  lumberman  sized  up  to  Pete's  raise 
tentatively,  but  kept  his  hand  on  his  stack  of 
chips;  he  questioned  Pete  with  his  eyes,  mut 
tered,  hesitated,  and  finally  withdrew  the  stack 
of  chips  in  his  hands  and  threw  up  his  cards 
with  a  curse,  exposing  a  jack-high  spade  flush. 

Dewing's  eyes  were  cold  and  hard.  He  saw 
Pete's  raise  and  raised  again,  pushing  in  two 
stacks  of  reds. 

"That's  more  than  I've  got,  but  I'll  see 
you  as  far  as  my  chips  hold  out.  Wish  to 
Heaven  I  had  a  bushel ! "  Pete  sized  up  his  few 
chips  beside  Dewing's  tall  red  stacks.  "It's 
a  shame  to  show  this  hand  for  such  a  pitiful 
little  bit  of  money,"  he  said  in  an  aggrieved 
voice.  "What  you  got?" 

Dewing  made  no  move  to  turn  over  his 
cards. 

"  If  you  feel  that  way  about  it,  old-timer," 
he  said  as  he  raked  back  his  remainder  of  un- 
imperiled  chips,  "you  can  go  down  in  your 
pocket." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          281 

"  Table  stakes !"  objected  Scotty. 

" That's  all  right,"  said  Dewing.  "We'll 
suspend  the  rules,  seeing  there's  no  one  in  the 
pot  but  Johnson  and  me.  This  game,  I  take 
it,  is  going  to  break  up  right  now  and  leave 
somebody  feeling  mighty  sore.  If  you're  so 
sure  you  Ve  got  me  beat  —  dig  up!" 

"Cash  my  chips,"  said  Scotty.  "I  sat  down 
here  to  play  table  stakes,  and  I  did  n't  come  to 
hear  you  fellows  jaw,  either." 

"You  shut  up!"  said  Dewing.  "I'll  cash 
your  chips  when  I  play  out  this  hand  —  not 
before.  You're  not  in  this." 

"Hell;  you're  both  of  you  scared  stiff!" 
scoffed  Scotty.  "Neither  of  you  dast  put  up  a 
cent." 

"Well,  Johnson,  how  about  it?"  jeered  Dew 
ing.  ' '  What  are  you  going  to  do  or  take  water? ' ' 

"Won't  there  ever  be  any  more  hands  of 
poker  dealt?"  asked  Pete.  "If  I  thought  this 
was  to  be  the  last  hand  ever  played,  I'd  sure 
plunge  right  smart  on  this  bunch  of  mine." 


282  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

" Weakening,  eh?"  sneered  Dewing. 

" That's  enough,  Pete,"  said  Boland,  very 
much  vexed.  "We're  playing  table  stakes. 
This  is  no  way  to  do.  Show  what  you've  got 
and  let's  get  out  of  this." 

"You  let  me  be! "  snapped  Pete.  "  No,  Dew 
ing;  I'm  not  weakening.  About  how  much 
cash  have  you  got  in  your  roll?" 

"About  fourteen  hundred  in  the  house. 
More  in  the  bank  if  you're  really  on  the  peck. 
And  I  paid  three  thousand  cash  for  this  place." 

"And  I've  got  maybe  fifty  or  sixty  dollars 
with  me.  You  see  how  it  is,"  said  Pete.  "But 
I  've  got  a  good  ranch  and  a  bunch  of  cattle,  if 
you  happen  to  know  anything  about  them." 

"Pete!  Pete!  That's  enough,"  urged  Bo- 
land. 

Pete  shook  him  off. 

"Mind  your  own  business,  will  you?"  he 
snapped.  "I'm  going  to  show  Mr.  Something 
Dewing  how  it  feels." 

The    gambler    smiled    coldly.      "Johnson, 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  283 

you're  an  old  blowhard!  If  you  really  want  to 
make  a  man-size  bet  on  that  hand  of  yours, 
I'll  make  you  a  proposition." 

"Bet  on  it?  Bet  on  this  hand?"  snarled 
Pete,  clutching  his  cards  tightly.  "I'd  bet 
everything  I've  got  on  this  hand." 

"We'll  see  about  that.  I  may  be  wrong,  but 
I  seem  to  have  heard  that  you  and  young 
Mitchell  have  found  a  copper  claim  that's 
pretty  fair,  and  a  little  over.  I  believe  it, 
anyhow.  And  I'm  willing  to  take  the  risk 
that  you'll  keep  your  word.  I'll  shoot  the 
works  on  this  hand  —  cash,  bank  roll,  and  the 
joint,  against  a  quarter  interest  in  your  mine." 

"Son,"  said  Johnson,  "I  would  n't  sell  you 
one  per  cent  of  my  share  of  that  mine  for  all 
you've  got.  Come  again!" 

The  gambler  laughed  contemptuously. 
"That's  easy  enough  said,"  he  taunted.  "If 
you  want  to  wiggle  out  of  it  that  way,  all 
right!" 

Pete  raised  a  finger. 


284  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Not  so  fast.  I  don't  remember  that  I've 
wiggled  any  yet.  I  don't  want  your  money  or 
your  saloon.  In  mentioning  my  mine  you  have 
set  an  example  of  plain  speaking  which  I  in 
tend  to  follow.  I  do  hereby  believe  that  you 
can  clear  Stanley  Mitchell  of  the  charge  hang 
ing  over  him.  If  you  can,  I'll  bet  you  a  one- 
quarter  interest  in  our  mine  against  that  evi 
dence.  I  '11  take  your  word  if  you  '11  take  mine, 
and  I  '11  give  you  twelve  hours'  start  before  I 
make  your  confession  public.  —  Boland,  you 
mind  your  own  business.  I'm  doing  this. — 
Well,  Dewing,  how  about  it?" 

"If  you  think  I've  got  evidence  to  clear 
Stanley—" 

"I  do.  I  think  you  did  the  trick  yourself, 
likely." 

"  You  might  as  well  get  one  thing  in  your 
head,  first  as  last:  if  I  had  any  such  evidence 
and  made  any  such  a  bet  —  I'd  win  it!  You 
may  be  sure  of  that.  So  you'd  be  no  better  off 
so  far  as  getting  your  pardner  out  of  trouble 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  285 

is  concerned  —  and  you  lose  a  slice  of  mining 
property.  If  you  really  think  I  can  give  you 
any  such  evidence,  why  not  trade  me  an  inter 
est  in  the  mine  for  it?" 

"I'm  not  buying,  I'm  betting!  Who's  wig 
gling  now?" 

"You  headstrong,  stiff-necked  old  fool, 
you've  made  a  bet!  I've  got  the  evidence. 
Your  word  against  mine?" 

"Your  word  against  mine.  The  bet  is  made," 
said  Pete.  "What  have  you  got?  I  called  you." 

"I've  got  the  Dead  Man's  Hand  — that's 
all!"  Dewing  spread  out  three  aces  and  a  pair 
of  eights,  and  smiled  exasperatingly.  "You've 
got  what  you  were  looking  for!  I  hope  you're 
satisfied  now!" 

"Yes,"  said  Pete;  "I'm  satisfied.  Let's  see 
you  beat  this!"  He  tossed  his  cards  on  the 
table.  "Look  at  'em!  A  royal  straight  flush 
in  diamonds,  and  a  gun  to  back  it!"  The  gun 
leaped  up  with  a  click.  "Come  through,  Dew 
ing!  Your  spy  may  shoot  me  through  that 


286  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

panel  behind  me;  but  if  he  does  I'll  bore  you 
through  the  heart.  Boland,  you've  got  a  gun. 
Watch  the  wall  at  my  back.  If  you  see  a  panel 
open,  shoot!  Hands  on  the  table,  lumbermen!" 

" Don't  shoot!  I'll  come  through,"  said 
Dewing,  coolly  enough,  but  earnestly.  "I 
think  you  are  the  devil!  Where  did  you  get 
those  cards?" 

"Call  your  man  in  from  that  panel.  My 
back  itches  and  so  does  my  trigger  finger." 

"What  do  you  think  I  am  —  a  fool?  No 
body's  going  to  shoot  you."  Dewing  raised 
his  voice:  "Come  on  in,  Warren,  hands  up,  be 
fore  this  old  idiot  drills  me." 

"Evidence,"  remarked  Johnson  softly,  "is 
what  I  am  after.  Evidence!  I  have  no  need  of 
any  corpses.  Boland,  you  might  go  through 
Mr.  Warren  and  those  other  gentlemen  for 
guns.  Never  mind  Dewing;  I'll  get  his  gun, 
myself,  after  the  testimony.  Dewing  might 
play  a  trick  on  you  if  you  get  too  close.  That's 
right.  Pile  'em  in  the  chair.  Now,  Mr.  Dewing 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  287 

—  you  were  to  give  some  testimony,  I  be 
lieve." 

"  You  '11  get  it.  I  robbed  Wiley  myself .  But 
I  'm  damned  if  I  tell  you  any  more  till  you  tell 
me  where  you  got  that  hand.  I'll  swear  those 
are  the  cards  I  dealt  you.  I  never  took  my  eyes 
off  of  you." 

"Your  eyes  are  all  right,  son,"  said  Johnson 
indulgently,  "but  you  made  your  play  too 
strong.  You  showed  an  ace  and  two  eights. 
Then,  when  Mr.  Scotty  obliged  by  flashing  an 
other  eight,  I  knowed  you  was  to  deal  me  two 
aces  for  confidence  cards  and  two  more  to  your 
self,  to  make  out  a  full  hand  to  beat  my  king- 
full.  So  I  discarded  two  kings.  Turn  'em  over, 
Boland.  I  took  a  long  chance.  Drew  to  the 
king,  queen,  and  jack  of  diamonds.  If  one  of 
the  aces  I  got  in  the  draw  had  been  either 
hearts  or  black,  I'd  have  lost  a  little  money; 
and  there's  an  end.  As  it  happened,  I  drew 
the  diamond  ace  and  the  joker,  making  ace, 
king,  queen,  jack,  and  ten  —  and  this  poker 


288  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

game  is  hereby  done  broke  up.  I  'm  ready  for 
the  evidence  now." 

"You've  earned  it  fair,  and  you'll  get  it.  I 
told  you  I  'd  not  implicate  any  one  but  myself, 
and  I  won't.  I  robbed  Wiley  so  I  could  saw  it 
off  on  Stan.  You  know  why,  I  guess,"  said 
Dewing.  "If  you'll  ask  that  little  Bobby  kid 
of  Jackson  Carr's,  he'll  tell  you  that  Stan  lost 
his  spur  beyond  Hospital  Springs  about  sunset 
on  the  night  of  the  robbery,  and  did  n't  find  it 
again.  The  three  of  us  rode  in  together,  and 
the  boy  can  swear  that  Stan  had  only  one  spur. 

"I  saw  the  spur  when  we  were  hunting  for 
it;  I  saw  how  it  would  help  me  get  Stan  out  of 
the  way;  so  I  said  nothing,  and  I  went  back 
that  night  and  got  it.  I  dropped  it  near  where 
I  held  Wiley  up,  and  found  it  again,  very  op 
portunely,  when  I  came  ba^ck  to  Cobre  with 
the  posse.  Every  one  knew  that  spur;  that  was 
how  the  posse  came  to  search  Stan's  place. 
The  rest  is  easy:  I  hid  the  money  where  it  was 
sure  to  be  found.  That's  all  I  am  going  to  tell 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  289 

you,  and  that's  enough.  If  it  will  make  you 
feel  any  better  about  it,  though,  you  may  be 
pleased  to  know  that  Bat  Wiley  and  most  of 
them  were  acting  in  good  faith." 

"That  is  quite  satisfactory.  The  witness 
is  excused,"  said  Pete.  "And  I'll  give  you 
twelve  hours  to  leave  Tucson  before  I  give  out 
the  news." 

"Twelve  minutes  is  quite  enough,  thank 
you.  My  address  will  be  Old  Mexico  hereafter, 
and  I  '11  close  out  the  shop  by  mail.  Anything 
else?" 

"Why,  yes;  you  might  let  me  have  that 
gun  of  yours  as  a  keepsake.  No;  I'll  get  it," 
said  Pete  kindly.  "You  just  hold  up  your 
hands.  Well,  we  gotta  be  going.  We've  had 
a  pleasant  afternoon,  haven't  we?  Good-bye, 
gentlemen!  Come  on,  Boland!" 

They  backed  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THAT  night,  between  ten  and  eleven, 
Stanley  Mitchell  came  forth  from  Tuc 
son  Jail.  Pete  Johnson  was  not  there  to  meet 
him;  fearing  espionage  from  Cobre,  he  sent 
Boland,  instead.  Boland  led  the  ex-prisoner  to 
the  rendezvous,  where  Pete  and  Joe  Benavides 
awaited  their  coming  with  four  saddle  horses, 
the  pick  of  the  Benavides  caballada,  and  two 
pack-horses.  Except  for  a  small  package  of 
dynamite  —  a  dozen  sticks  securely  wrapped, 
an  afterthought  that  Pete  put  into  effect 
between  poker  game  and  supper-time  —  the 
packs  contained  only  the  barest  necessities, 
with  water  kegs,  to  be  filled  later.  The  four 
friends  were  riding  light;  but  each  carried  a 
canteen  at  the  saddle  horn,  and  a  rifle. 

They  rode  quietly  out  through  the  southern 
end  of  the  town,  Joe  Benavides  leading  the 
way.  They  followed  a  trail  through  Robles' 
Pass  and  westward  through  the  Altar  Valley. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  291 

They  watered  at  the  R  E  Ranch  at  three  in  the 
morning,  waking  Barnaby  Robles;  him  they 
bound  to  silence;  and  there  they  let  their  horses 
rest  and  eat  of  the  R  E  corn  while  they  pre 
pared  a  hasty  breakfast.  Then  they  pushed  on, 
to  waste  no  brief  coolness  of  the  morning  hours. 
Pete  kept  word  and  spirit  of  his  promise  to 
Dewing;  not  until  day  was  broad  in  the  sky 
did  he  tell  Stanley  of  Dewing's  disclosure,  tid 
ings  that  displeased  Stanley  not  at  all. 

It  was  a  gay  party  on  that  bright  desert 
morning,  though  the  way  led  through  a  dis 
mal  country  of  giant  cactus,  cholla  and  mes- 
quite.  Pete  noted  with  amusement  that  Stan 
ley  and  Frank-Francis  showed  some  awk 
wardness  and  restraint  with  each  other.  Their 
clipped  g's  were  carefully  restored  and  their 
conversation  was  otherwise  conducted  on  the 
highest  plane.  The  dropping  of  this  superflu 
ous  final  letter  had  become  habitual  with  Stan 
ley  through  carelessness  and  conformance  to 
environment.  With  Boland  it  was  a  matter  of 


292  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

principle,  practiced  in  a  spirit  of  perversity,  in 
rebellion  against  a  world  too  severely  regulated. 

By  ten  in  the  morning  the  heat  drove  them 
to  cover  for  sleep  and  nooning  in  the  scanty 
shade  of  a  mesquite  motte.  Long  before  that, 
the  two  young  gentlemen  had  arrived  at  an 
easier  footing  and  the  g's  were  once  more  com 
fortably  dropped.  But  poor  Boland,  by  this 
time,  was  ill  at  ease  in  body.  He  was  not  in 
experienced  in  hard  riding  of  old;  and  in  his 
home  on  the  northern  tip  of  Manhattan,  where 
the  Subway  goes  on  stilts  and  the  Elevated 
runs  underground,  he  had  allowed  himself  the 
luxury  of  a  saddle  horse  and  ridden  no  little, 
in  a  mild  fashion.  But  he  was  in  no  way 
hardened  to  such  riding  as  this. 

Mr.  Peter  Johnson  was  gifted  with  prescience 
beyond  the  common  run;  but  for  this  case, 
which  would  have  been  the  first  thought  for 
most  men,  his  foresight  had  failed.  During  the 
long  six-hour  nooning  Boland  suffered  with  in 
termittent  cramps  in  his  legs,  wakeful  while 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  293 

the  others  slept.  He  made  no  complaint;  but, 
though  he  kept  his  trouble  from  words,  he 
could  not  hold  his  face  straight.  When  they 
started  on  at  four  o'clock,  Pete  turned  aside 
for  the  little  spring  in  Coyote  Pass,  instead  of 
keeping  to  the  more  direct  but  rougher  trail 
to  the  Fresnal,  over  the  Baboquivari,  as  first 
planned.  Boland  promised  to  be  something  of 
a  handicap;  which,  had  he  but  known  it,  was 
all  the  better  for  the  intents  of  Mr.  Something 
Dewing. 

For  Mr.  Dewing  had  not  made  good  his 
strategic  retreat  to  Old  Mexico.  When  Pete 
Johnson  left  the  card  room  Dewing  disap 
peared,  indeed,  taking  with  him  his  two  con 
federates.  But  they  went  no  farther  than  to  a 
modest  and  unassuming  abode  near  by,  known 
to  the  initiated  as  the  House  of  Refuge.  There 
Mr.  Dewing  did  three  things:  first,  he  dis 
patched  messengers  to  bring  tidings  of  Mr. 
Johnson  and  his  doings;  second,  he  wrote  to 


294          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

Mr.  Mayer  Zurich,  at  Cobre,  and  sent  it  by  the 
first  mail  west,  so  that  the  stage  should  bring 
it  to  Cobre  by  the  next  night;  third,  he  tele 
graphed  to  a  trusty  satellite  at  Silverbell,  tell 
ing  him  to  hold  an  automobile  in  readiness  to 
carry  a  telegram  to  Mayer  Zurich,  should  Dew 
ing  send  such  telegram  later.  Then  Dewing  lay 
down  to  snatch  a  little  sleep. 

The  messengers  returned;  Mr.  Johnson  and 
his  Eastern  friend  were  foregathered  with 
Joe  Benavides,  they  reported;  there  were 
horses  in  evidence  —  six  horses.  Mr.  Dewing 
rose  and  took  station  to  watch  the  jail  from  a 
safe  place ;  he  saw  Stanley  come  out  with  Bo- 
land.  The  so-called  lumbermen  had  provided 
horses  in  the  meanwhile.  Unostentatiously,  and 
at  a  safe  distance,  the  three  followed  the  caval 
cade  that  set  out  from  the  Benavides  house. 

Dewing  posted  his  lumbermen  in  relays  — 
one  near  th£  entrance  of  Robles'  Pass;  one  be 
yond  the  R  E  Ranch,  which  they  circled  to 
avoid ;  himself  following  the  tracks  of  the  four 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          295 

friends  until  he  was  assured,  beyond  doubt, 
that  they  shaped  their  course  for  the  landmark 
of  Baboquivari  Peak.  Then  he  retraced  his 
steps,  riding  slowly  perforce,  lest  any  great 
dust  should  betray  him.  In  the  burning  heat 
of  noon  he  rejoined  Scotty,  the  first  relay;  he 
scribbled  his  telegram  on  the  back  of  an  old 
envelope  and  gave  it  to  Scotty.  That  worthy 
spurred  away  to  the  R  E  Ranch;  the  hour  for 
concealment  was  past  —  time  was  the  essence 
of  the  contract.  Dewing  followed  at  a  slowed 
gait. 

Scotty  delivered  the  telegram  to  his  mate, 
who  set  off  at  a  gallop  for  Tucson.  Between 
them  they  covered  the  forty  miles  in  four  hours, 
or  a  little  less.  Before  sunset  an  auto  set  out 
from  Silverbell,  bearing  the  message  to  Cobre. 

At  that  same  sunset  time,  while  Pete  John 
son  and  his  friends  were  yet  far  from  Coyote 
Pass,  Mayer  Zurich,  in  Cobre,  spoke  harshly 
to  Mr.  Oscar  Mitchell. 


296          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"I  don't  know  where  you  get  any  finger  in 
this  pie,"  he  said  implacably.  "You  didn't 
pay  me  to  find  any  mines  for  you.  You  hired 
me  to  hound  your  cousin;  and  I've  hounded 
him  to  jail.  That  lets  you  out.  I  would  n't 
push  the  matter  if  I  were  you.  This  is  n't  New 
York.  Things  happen  providentially  out  here 
when  men  persist  in  shoving  in  where  they're 
not  wanted." 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  Mitchell, 
"and  have  taken  steps  to  safeguard  myself. 
It  may  be  worth  your  while  to  know  that  I 
have  copies  of  all  your  letters  and  reports.  I 
brought  them  to  Arizona  with  me.  I  have  left 
them  in  the  hands  of  my  confidential  clerk,  at 
a  place  unknown  to  you,  with  instructions  to 
place  them  in  the  hands  of  the  sheriff  of  this 
county  unless  I  return  to  claim  them  in  person 
within  ten  days,  and  to  proceed  accordingly." 

Zurich  stared  at  him  and  laughed  in  a  coarse, 
unfeeling  manner.  "Oh,  you  did,  hey?  Did 
you  think  of  that  all  by  yourself?  Did  it  ever 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          297 

occur  to  you  that  I  have  your  instructions, 
over  your  own  signature,  filed  away,  and  that 
they  would  make  mighty  interesting  reading? 
Your  clerk  can  proceed  accordingly  any  time 
he  gets  good  and  ready.  Go  on,  man!  You 
make  me  tired !  You ' ve  earned  no  share  in  this 
mine,  and  you'll  get  no  share  unless  you  pay 
well  for  it.  If  we  find  the  mine,  we'll  need 
cash  money,  to  be  sure;  but  if  we  find  it,  we 
can  get  all  the  money  we  want  without  yours. 
Go  on  away!  You  bother  me!" 

"I  have  richly  earned  a  share  without  put 
ting  in  any  money,"  said  Mitchell  with  much 
dignity.  "This  man  Johnson,  that  you  fear  so 
much  —  I  have  laid  him  by  the  heels  for  sev 
eral  years  to  come,  and  left  you  a  clear  field. 
Is  that  nothing?" 

"You  poor,  blundering,  meddling,  thick 
headed  fool,"  said  Zurich  unpleasantly;  "can't 
you  see  what  you've  done?  You've  locked  up 
our  best  chance  to  lay  a  finger  on  that  mine. 
Now  I'll  have  to  get  your  Cousin  Stanley  out 
of  jail;  and  that  won't  be  easy.11 


298  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

" What  for?" 

"So  I  can  watch  him  and  get  hold  of  the 
copper  claim,  of  course." 

"Why  don't  you  leave  him  in  jail  and  hunt 
for  the  claim  till  you  find  it?"  demanded  law 
yer  Mitchell,  willing  to  defer  his  triumph  until 
the  moment  when  it  should  be  most  effective. 

' '  Find  it?  Yes;  we  might  find  it  in  a  million 
years,  maybe,  or  we  might  find  it  in  a  day. 
Pima  County  alone  is  one  fourth  the  size  of  the 
State  of  New  York.  And  the  claim  may  be  in 
Yuma  County,  Maricopa,  or  Pinal  —  or  even  in 
Old  Mexico,  for  all  we  know.  We  feel  like  it 
was  somewhere  south  of  here;  but  that's  only  a 
hunch.  It  might  as  well  be  north  or  west.  And 
you  don't  know  this  desert  country.  It's  sim 
ply  hell!  To  go  out  there  hunting  for  any 
thing  you  happen  to  find  —  that's  plenty  bad 
enough.  But  to  go  out  at  random,  hunting  for 
one  particular  ledge  of  rock,  when  you  don't 
know  where  it  is  or  what  it  looks  like  —  that  is 
not  to  be  thought  of.  Too  much  like  dipping 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          299 

up  the  Atlantic  Ocean  with  a  fountain  pen  to 
suit  me!'* 

"Then,  by  your  own  showing,"  rejoined 
Mitchell  triumphantly,  "  I  am  not  only  en 
titled  to  a  share  of  the  mine,  but  I  am  fairly 
deserving  of  the  biggest  share.  I  met  this  igno 
rant  mountaineer,  of  whom  you  stand  in  such 
awe,  took  his  measure,  and  won  his  confidence. 
What  you  failed  to  do  by  risk,  with  numbers 
on  your  side,  what  you  shrink  from  attempting 
by  labor  and  patience,  I  have  accomplished  by 
an  hour's  diplomacy.  Johnson  has  given  me  full 
directions  for  finding  the  mine  —  and  a  map." 

"What?  Johnson  would  never  do  that  in  a 
thousand  years!" 

"It  is  as  I  say.  See  for  yourself."  Mitchell 
displayed  the  document  proudly. 

Zurich  took  one  look  at  that  amazing  mapi 
then  his  feelings  overcame  him;  he  laid  his- 
head  on  the  table  and  wept. 

Painful  explanation  ensued;  comparison 
with  an  authentic  map  carried  conviction  to 
Mitchell's  whirling  mind. 


300          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"  And  you  thought  you  could  take  Johnson's 
measure?"  said  Zurich  in  conclusion.  "Man, 
he  played  with  you.  It  is  by  no  means  certain 
that  Johnson  will  like  it  in  jail.  If  he  comes 
back  here,  and  finds  that  you  have  not  been 
near  your  cousin,  he  may  grow  suspicious. 
And  if  he  ever  gets  after  you,  the  Lord  have 
mercy  on  your  soul!  Well,  there  comes  the 
stage.  I  must  go  and  distribute  the  mail.  Give 
me  this  map  of  yours;  I  must  have  it  framed. 
I  would  n't  take  a  fortune  for  it.  Tinhorn 
Mountain!  Dear,  oh,  dear!" 

He  came  back  a  little  later  in  a  less  mirth 
ful  mood.  Had  not  the  crestfallen  Mitchell 
been  thoroughly  engrossed  with  his  own  hurts, 
he  might  have  perceived  that  Zurich  himself 
was  considerably  subdued. 

"It  is  about  time  for  you  to  take  steps 
again,"  said  Zurich.  "  Glance  over  this  letter. 
It  came  on  the  stage  just  now.  Dated  at 
Tucson  last  night." 

Mitchell  read  this: 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          301 

DEAR  MISTER:  Johnson  is  back  and  no  pitch 
hot.  Look  out  for  yourself.  He  over-reached  me ; 
he  knows  who  got  Bat  Wiley's  money,  and  he  can 
prove  it. 

He  thinks  I  am  doing  a  dive  for  Mexico.  But 
I  'm  not.  I  am  watching  him.  I  think  he  means  to 
make  a  dash  for  the  mine  to-night,  and  I  'm  going 
to  follow  him  till  I  get  the  direction.  Of  course  he 
may  go  south  into  Mexico.  If  he  does  he  '11  have 
too  big  a  start  to  be  caught.  But  if  he  goes  west, 
you  can  head  him  off  and  cut  sign  on  him.  Slim 
is  at  Silverbell,  waiting  with  a  car  to  bring  you  a 
wire  from  me,  which  I'll  send  only  if  Johnson 
goes  west,  or  thereabouts.  If  I  send  the  message 
at  all,  it  should  follow  close  on  this  letter.  Slim 
drives  his  car  like  a  drunk  Indian.  Be  ready. 
Johnson  is  too  much  for  me.  Maybe  you  can  han 
dle  him.  D. 

"I  would  suggest  Patagonia,"  said  Zurich 
kindly.  "No;  get  yourself  sent  up  to  the  pen 
for  life  —  that'll  be  best.  He  would  n't  look 
for  you  there." 

Zurich  found  but  three  of  his  confederacy 
available  —  Jim  Scarboro  and  Bill  Dorsey, 
the  Jim  and  Bill  of  the  horse  camp  and  the 
shooting  match  —  and  Eric  Anderson ;  but 


302  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

these  were  his  best.  They  made  a  pack;  they 
saddled  horses;  they  filled  canteens  —  and 
rifles. 

Slim's  car  came  to  Cobre  at  half-past  nine. 
The  message  from  Dewing  ran  thus: 

For  Fishhook  Mountain.  Benavides,  S.,  J., 
and  another.  Ten  words. 

Five  minutes  later  the  four  confederates 
thundered  south  through  the  night.  At  day 
light  they  made  a  change  of  horses  at  a  far- 
lying  Mexican  rancheria,  Zurich's  check  pay 
ing  the  shot;  they  bought  two  five-gallon  kegs 
and  lashed  them  to  the  pack,  to  be  filled  when 
needed.  At  nine  in  the  morning  they  came  to 
Fishhook  Mountain. 

Fishhook  Mountain  is  midmost  in  the  great 
desert;  Quijotoa  Valley,  desolate  and  dim,  lies 
to  the  east  of  it,  gullied,  dust-deviled,  and  for 
lorn. 

The  name  gives  the  mountain's  shape  —  two 
fishhooks  bound  together  back  to  back,  one 
prong  to  the  east,  the  other  to  the  west,  the 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  303 

barbs  pointing  to  the  north.  Sweetwater 
Spring  is  on  the  barb  of  the  eastern  hook;  three 
miles  west,  on  the  main  shank,  an  all  but  im 
passable  trail  climbed  to  Hardscrabble  Tanks. 

At  the  foot  of  this  trail,  Zurich  and  his  party 
halted.  Far  out  on  the  eastern  plain  they  saw, 
through  Zurich's  spyglass,  a  slow  procession, 
heading  directly  for  them. 

"We've  beat  'em  to  it!"  said  Eric. 

'That  country  out  there  is  washed  out  some 
thing  terrible,  for  all  it  looks  so  flat,"  said  Jim 
Scarboro  sympathetically.  " They've  got  to 
ride  slow.  Gee,  I  bet  it's  hot  out  there!" 

"One  thing  sure,"  said  Eric:  "there's  no 
such  mine  as  that  on  Fishhook.  I've  pros 
pected  every  foot  of  it." 

"They'll  noon  at  Sweetwater,"  said  Zurich. 
"You  boys  go  on  up  to  Hardscrabble.  Take 
my  horse.  I  '11  go  over  to  Sweetwater  and  hide 
out  in  the  rocks  to  see  what  I  can  find  out. 
There's  a  stony  place  where  I  can  get  across 
without  leaving  any  trail. 


304  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"  Unsaddle  and  water.  Leave  the  pack  here, 
you'd  better,  and  my  saddle.  They  are  not 
coming  here  —  nothing  to  come  for.  You  can 
sleep,  turn  about,  one  watching  the  horses,  and 
come  on  down  when  you  see  me  coming  back." 

It  was  five  hours  later  when  the  watchers 
on  Hardscrabble  saw  the  Johnson  party  turn 
south,  up  the  valley  between  barb  and  shank 
of  the  mountain;  an  hour  after  that  Zurich 
rejoined  them,  as  they  repacked  at  the  trail 
foot,  and  made  his  report: 

"I  could  n't  hear  where  they're  going;  but 
it  is  somewhere  west  or  westerly,  and  it's  a  day 
farther  on.  Say,  it's  a  good  thing  I  went  over 
there.  What  do  you  suppose  that  fiend  John 
son  is  going  to  do?  You  would  n't  guess  it  in 
ten  years.  You  fellows  all  know  there's  only 
one  way  to  get  out  of  that  Fishhook  Valley  — 
unless  you  turn  round  and  come  back  the  way 
you  go  in?" 

"  I  don't,"  said  Bill.  "  I  've  never  been  down 
this  way  before." 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  305 

"You  can  get  out  through  Horse-Thief  Gap, 
'way  in  the  southwest.  There's  a  place  near 
the  top  where  there's  just  barely  room  for  a 
horse  to  get  through  between  the  cliffs.  You 
can  ride  a  quarter  mile  and  touch  the  rocks  on 
each  side  with  your  hands.  Johnson's  afraid 
some  one  will  see  those  tracks  they're  makin' 
and  follow  'em  up.  I  heard  him  tellin'  it.  So 
the  damned  old  fool  has  lugged  dynamite 
all  the  way  from  Tucson,  and  after  they  get 
through  he's  going  to  stuff  the  powder  behind 
some  of  those  chimneys  and  plug  Horse-Thief 
so  damn  full  of  rock  that  a  goat  can't  get  over," 
said  Zurich  indignantly.  "Now  what  do  you 
think  of  that?  Most  suspicious  old  idiot  I  ever 
did  see!" 

"I  call  it  good  news.  That  copper  must  be 
something  extraordinary,  or  he'd  never  take 
such  a  precaution,"  said  Eric. 

Zurich  answered  as  they  saddled: 

"If  we  had  followed  them  in  there,  we 
would  have  lost  forty  miles.  As  it  is,  they  gain 


306  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

twenty  miles  on  us  while  we  ride  back  round 
the  north  end  of  the  mountain,  besides  an  hour 
I  lost  hoofing  it  back." 

"I  don't  see  that  we've  lost  much,"  said 
Jim  Scarboro.  "We've  got  their  direction  and 
our  horses  are  fresh  beside  of  theirs.  We'll 
make  up  that  twenty  miles  and  be  in  at  the 
finish  to-morrow;  we're  four  to  four.  Let's 
ride." 

Tall  Eric  rubbed  his  chin. 

"That  Benavides,"  he  said,  "is  a  tough  one. 
He  is  a  known  man.  He's  as  good  as  Johnson 
when  it  comes  to  shooting." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  the  shooting,  and  I'm 
not  afraid  of  death,"  said  Zurich  impatiently; 
"but  I  am  leery  about  that  cussed  old  man. 
He'll  find  a  way  to  fool  us  —  see  if  he  don't! " 

A  strong  wind  blew  scorching  from  the 
south  the  next  day;  Johnson  turned  aside  from 
the  sagebrush  country  to  avoid  the  worst  sand, 
and  bent  north  to  a  long  half-circle,  through  a 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  307 

country  of  giant  saguaro  and  clumped  yuccas; 
once  they  passed  over  a  neck  of  lava  hillocks 
thinly  drifted  over  with  sand.  The  heat  was 
ghastly;  on  their  faces  alkali  dust,  plastered 
with  sweat,  caked  in  the  stubble  of  two 
days'  growth;  their  eyes  were  red-rimmed 
and  swollen.  Boland,  bruised  and  racked  and 
cramped,  suffered  agonies. 

It  was  ten  in  the  morning  when  Joe  touched 
Pete's  arm: 

"Que  cosa?"  He  pointed  behind  them  and 
to  the  north,  to  a  long,  low-lying  streak  of  dust. 
"Trouble,  Don  Hooaleece?  I  think  so  —  yes." 

They  had  no  spyglass;  but  it  was  hardly 
needed.  The  dust  streak  followed  them,  al 
most  parallel  to  their  course.  It  gained  on 
them.  They  changed  their  gait  from  a  walk  to 
a  trot.  The  dust  came  faster;  they  were  pur 
sued. 

That  was  a  weird  race.  There  was  no  run 
ning,  no  galloping;  only  a  steady,  relentless 
trot  that  jarred  poor  Boland  to  the  bone. 


308  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

After  an  hour,  during  which  the  pursuers 
gained  steadily,  Pete  called  a  halt.  They  took 
the  packs  from  the  led  animals  and  turned 
them  loose,  to  go  back  to  Fishhook  Mountain; 
they  refilled  their  canteens  from  the  kegs  and 
pressed  on.  The  pursuit  had  gained  during  the 
brief  delay;  plainly  to  be  seen  now,  queer  little 
bobbing  black  figures  against  the  north. 

They  rode  on,  a  little  faster  now.  But  at  the 
end  of  half  an  hour  the  black  figures  were  per 
ceptibly  closer. 

"They're  gaining  on  us,"  said  Boland, 
turning  his  red-lidded  eyes  on  Stan.  "They 
have  better  horses,  or  fresher." 

"No,"  said  Stan;  "they're  riding  faster  — 
that's  all.  They  have  n't  a  chance;  they  can't 
keep  it  up  at  the  rate  they're  doing  now. 
They're  five  miles  to  the  north,  and  it  is  n't  far 
to  the  finish.  See  that  huddle  of  little  hills  in 
the  middle  of  the  plain,  ahead  and  a  little  to 
the  south?  That's  our  place,  and  we  can't  be 
caught  before  we  get  there.  Pete  is  saving  our 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL  309 

horses;  they're  going  strong.  These  fellows 
are  five  miles  away  yet.  They've  shot  their 
bolt,  and  they  know  it." 

He  was  right.  The  bobbing  black  shapes 
came  abreast  —  held  even  —  fell  back  —  came 
again  —  hung  on,  and  fell  back  at  last,  hope 
lessly  distanced  when  the  goal  was  still  ten 
miles  away.  Pete  and  his  troop  held  on  at  the 
same  unswerving  gait  —  trot,  trot,  trot !  The 
ten  miles  became  nine  —  eight  —  seven  — 

Sharp-eyed  Benavides  touched  Pete's  arm 
and  pointed.  "What's  that?  By  gar,  eet  is  a 
man,  amigo;  a  man  in  some  troubles!'1 

It  was  a  man,  a  black  shape  that  waved  a 
hat  frantically  from  a  swell  of  rising  ground  a 
mile  to  the  south.  Pete  swerved  his  course. 

"You've  got  the  best  horse,  Joe.  Gallop 
up  and  see  what's  wrong.  I'm  afraid  it's 
Jackson  Cam" 

It  was  Jackson  Carr.  He  limped  to  meet 
Benavides;  the  Mexican  turned  and  swung 
his  hat;  the  three  urged  their  wearied  horses 
to  a  gallop. 


310          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

" Trouble?7'  said  Pete,  leaping  down. 

"  Bobby.  I  tied  up  his  pony  and  hobbled 
the  rest.  At  daylight  they  was  n't  in  sight. 
Bobby  went  after  'em.  I  waited  a  long  time 
and  then  I  hobbled  off  down  here  to  see. 
Wagon's  five  or  six  miles  north.  One  of  my 
spans  come  from  down  in  Sonora,  somewhere 
—  Santa  Elena,  wherever  that  is  —  and  I 
reckon  they're  dragging  it  for  home  and  the 
others  have  followed,  unless  —  unless  Bob's 
pony  has  fallen,  or  something.  He  did  n't 
take  any  water.  He  could  follow  the  tracks 
back  here  on  this  hard  ground.  But  in  the  sand 
down  there  —  with  all  this  wind — "  His  eye 
turned  to  the  shimmering  white  sandhills 
along  the  south,  with  the  dust  clouds  high 
above  them. 

"Boland,  you'll  have  to  give  Carr  your 
horse,"  said  Pete.  "It's  his  boy;  and  you're 
'most  dead  anyhow.  We'll  light  a  big  blaze 
when  we  find  him,  and  another  on  this  edge  of 
the  sandhills  in  case  you  don't  see  the  first. 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          311 

We'll  make  two  of  'em,  a  good  ways  apart, 
if  everything  is  all  right.  You  take  a  canteen 
and  crawl  under  a  bush  and  rest  a  while.  You 
need  it.  If  you  feel  better  after  a  spell,  you 
can  follow  these  horse  tracks  back  and  hobble 
along  to  the  wagon;  or  we  can  pick  you  up  as 
we  come  back.  Come  on,  boys!" 

" But  your  mine?"  said  Carr.  He  pointed  to 
a  slow  dust  streak  that  passed  along  the  north. 
"I  saw  you  coming  —  two  bunches.  Ain't 
those  fellows  after  your  mine?  'Cause  if  they 
are,  they'll  sure  find  it.  You've  been  riding 
straight  for  them  little  hills  out  there  all  alone 
in  the  big  middle  of  the  plain." 

"Damn  the  mine!"  said  Pete.  "  We've  been 
playing.  We've  got  man's  work  to  do  now.  No; 
there's  no  use  splitting  up  and  sending  one  or 
two  to  the  mine.  That  mine  is  a  four-man  job. 
So  is  this;  and  a  better  one.  We're  all  needed 
here.  To  hell  with  the  mine!  Come  on!" 

They  found  Bobby,  far  along  in  the  after- 


312          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

noon,  in  the  sandhills.  His  lips  were  cracked 
and  bleeding;  his  tongue  was  beginning  to 
blacken  and  swell ;  his  eyes  were  swollen  nearly 
shut  from  alkali  dust,  and  there  was  an  ugly 
gash  in  the  hair's  edge  above  his  left  ear;  he 
was  caked  with  blood  and  mire,  and  he  clung 
to  the  saddle  horn  with  both  hands  —  but  he 
drove  six  horses  before  him. 

They  gave  him,  a  little  at  a  time,  the  heated 
water  from  their  canteens.  A  few  small  drinks 
cheered  him  up  amazingly.  After  a  big  soap- 
weed  was  touched  off  for  a  signal  fire,  he  was 
able  to  tell  his  story. 

"Naw,  I  ain't  hurt  none  to  speak  of;  but 
I  'm  some  tired.  I  hit  a  high  lope  and  catched 
up  with  them  in  the  aidge  of  the  sandhills,"  he 
said.  "I  got  'em  all  unhobbled  but  old  Heck; 
and  then  that  ornery  Nig  horse  kicked  me  in 
the  head  —  damn  him !  Knocked  me  out  quite 
a  spell.  Sun  was  middlin'  high  when  I  come  to 
—  horses  gone,  and  the  cussed  pony  trailed 
along  after  them.  It  was  an  hour  or  two  before 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          313 

I  caught  sight  of  'em  again.  I  was  spitting 
cotton  a  heap.  Dad  always  told  me  to  carry 
water  with  me,  and  I  sure  was  wishing  I'd 
minded  him.  Well,  I  went  'way  round  and 
headed  'em  off  —  and,  dog-gone,  they  up  and 
run  round  me.  That  Zip  horse  was  the  ring 
leader.  Every  time,  just  as  I  was  about  to  get 
'em  turned,  he'd  make  a  break  and  the  rest 
would  follow,  hellity-larrup!  Old  Heck  has  cut 
his  feet  all  to  pieces  with  the  hobbles  —  old 
fool!  I  headed  'em  four  or  five  times  —  five,  I 
guess  —  and  they  kept  getting  away,  and  run 
ning  farther  every  time  before  they  stopped 
and  went  to  grazing.  After  a  while  the  pony 
snagged  his  bridle  in  a  bush  and  I  got  him. 
Then  I  dropped  my  twine  on  old  Heck  and 
unhobbled  him,  and  come  on  back.  Give  me 
another  drink,  Pete." 

They  rode  back  very  slowly  to  the  northern 
edge  of  the  sandhills  and  lighted  their  two 
signal  fires.  An  answering  fire  flamed  in  the 
north,  to  show  that  Boland  had  seen  their 
signals. 


3  H          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"  I  reckon  we'll  stop  and  rest  here  a  while 
till  it  gets  cooler,"  observed  Pete.  "Might  as 
well,  now.  We  can  start  in  an  hour  and  get  in 
to  the  wagon  by  dark.  Reckon  Frank  Boland 
was  glad  to  see  them  two  fires!  I  bet  that  boy 
sure  hated  to  be  left  behind.  Pretty  tough  — 
but  it  had  to  be  done.  This  has  been  a  thun- 
derin'  hard  trip  on  Frankie  and  he's  stood  up 
to  it  fine.  Good  stuff!"  He  turned  to  the  boy: 
"Well,  Bobby,  you  had  a  hard  time  wranglin' 
them  to-day  —  but  you  got  'em,  did  n't  you, 
son?" 

"That's  what  I  went  after,"  said  Bobby. 

.  Boland  stiffened  after  his  rest.  He  made  two 
small  marches  toward  the  wagon,  but  his  tor 
tured  muscles  were  so  stiff  and  sore  that  he 
gave  it  up  at  last.  After  he  saw  and  answered 
the  signal  fires  he  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  jingling  of  spurs  and 
a  trampling  of  hoofs.  He  got  to  his  feet  hur 
riedly.  Four  horsemen  reined  up  beside  him  — 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          315 

not  Pete  Johnson  and  his  friends,  but  four 
strangers,  who  looked  at  him  curiously.  Their 
horses  were  sadly  travel-stained. 

1  'Anything  wrong,  young  man?  We  saw 
your  fire?" 

"No  —  not  now."  Boland's  thoughts  were 
confused  and  his  head  sang.  He  attributed 
these  things  to  sleepiness;  in  fact,  he  was  sick 
ening  to  a  fever. 

'  You  look  mighty  peaked,"  said  the  spokes 
man.  "Got  water?  Anything  we  can  do  for 
you?" 

"Nothing  the  matter  with  me,  except  that 
I'm  pretty  well  played  out.  And  I've  been 
anxious.  There  was  a  boy  lost,  or  hurt  —  I 
don't  know  which.  But  it's  all  right  now. 
They  lit  two  fires.  That  was  to  be  the  signal 
if  there  was  nothing  seriously  wrong.  I  let  the 
boy's  father  take  my  horse  —  man  by  the 
name  of  Carr." 

"And  the  others?  That  was  Pete  Johnson, 
was  n't  it?  He  went  after  the  boy?" 


316          COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Yes.  And  young  Mitchell  and  Joe  Bena- 
vides." 

Zurich  glanced  aside  at  his  companions. 
Dorsey's  back  was  turned.  Jim  Scarboro  was 
swearing  helplessly  under  his  breath.  Tall 
Eric  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  fumbled  with  it; 
the  low  sun  was  ruddy  in  his  bright  hair.  Per 
haps  it  was  that  same  sun  which  flamed  so 
swiftly  in  Zurich's  face. 

"  We  might  as  well  go  back/'  he  said  dully, 
and  turned  his  horse's  head  toward  the  little 
huddle  of  hills  in  the  southwest. 

Boland  watched  them  go  with  a  confused 
mind,  and  sank  back  to  sleep  again. 

"  Jackson,"  said  Pete  in  the  morning,  "you 
and  Frank  stay  here.  I  reckon  there'll  be  no 
use  to  take  the  wagon  down  to  the  old  claim; 
but  us  three  are  going  down  to  take  a  look, 
now  we've  come  this  far.  Frank  says  he's 
feeling  better,  but  he  don't  look  very  peart. 
You  get  him  to  sleep  all  you  can.  If  we  should 


COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL          317 

happen  to  want  you,  we'll  light  a  big  fire.  So 
long!" 

"Don  Hooaleece,"  said  Benavides,  very 
bright-eyed,  when  they  had  ridden  a  little  way 
from  camp,  "  how  is  eet  to  be?  Eef  eet  is  war  I 
am  wis  you  to  ze  beeg  black  box." 

"Joe,"  said  Pete,  "I've  dodged  and  crept 
and  slid  and  crawled  and  climbed.  I've  tried 
to  go  over,  under,  and  around.  Now  I'm 
going  through." 

They  came  to  the  copper  hill  before  eight. 
They  found  no  one;  but  there  were  little  stone 
monuments  scattered  on  all  the  surrounding 
hills,  and  a  big  monument  on  the  highest  point 
of  the  little  hill  they  had  called  their  own. 

"They've  gone,"  said  Stan.  "Very  wise  of 
them.  Well,  let's  go  see  the  worst." 

They  dismounted  and  walked  to  the  hilltop. 
The  big  monument,  built  of  loose  stones  and 
freshly  dug  slabs  of  ore,  flashed  green  and  blue 
in  the  sun.  Stan  found  a  folded  paper  between 
two  flat  stones. 


3i8  COPPER  STREAK  TRAIL 

"Here's  their  location  notice/'  he  said. 

He  started  to  unfold  it;  a  word  caught  his 
eye  and  his  jaw  dropped.  He  held  the  notice 
over,  half  opened,  so  that  Pete  and  Joe  could 
see  the  last  paragraph: 

And  the  same  shall  be  known  as  the  Bobby  Carr 
Mine. 

WITNESSES  LOCATORS 

Jim  Scarboro  Peter  Wallace  Johnson 

William  Dorsey  Stanley  Mitchell 

Eric  Anderson 
C.  Mayer  Zurich 

" Zere  is  a  note,"  said  Joe;  "  I  see  eet  wizzin- 
side.'' 

Stanley  unfolded  the  location  notice.  A  note 
dropped  out.  Pete  picked  it  up  and  read  it 
aloud : 

PETE:  We  did  not  know  about  the  boy,  or  we 
would  have  helped,  of  course.  Only  for  him  you 
had  us  beat.  So  this  squares  that  up. 

Your  location  does  not  take  in  quite  all  the  hill. 
So  we  located  the  little  end  piece  for  ourselves. 
We  think  that  is  about  right.  * 

Yours  truly 

C.  MAYER  ZURICH 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D 

DEC  26  '65  1PM 

LOAN  DEPT, 

NOV  141966  3  2 

DECEIVED 

nrp  0  7  'fifi  -Q  AW 

Utt  t  1  ou    */  ' 

r  tui  rir"nT 

LOAN  I 

AUG  8     1973 

^  plRftfl 

mtn   ^v94 

^=^Wi 

fCff^na 

LD  21A-60?n,-10,'65 
(F7763slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


copper  Streak  trail 


FR20393 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


